


venus in furs

by naakahara_writes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Background Relationships, Blood and Injury, Double Agent AU, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Found Family, Leverage AU, M/M, Making Out, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Violence, Noir Aesthetic, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Space Opera, Thief AU, klance centric, more like enemies to enemies with benefits to friends to lovers, nonbinary pidge, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22074004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naakahara_writes/pseuds/naakahara_writes
Summary: It's the height of the Galra Empire, and only the poorest, most desperate planets are fiery with rebellion. Meanwhile, those rich enough to turn a blind eye are more than content to bask in VIP luxury at the Castle of Lions--an exclusive entertainment complex deep within Galra space. Class divide is brutal, but for the upper echelons of intergalactic society, life has never been better.Yet poverty is still a vicious motivator, and underneath the radar, a black market begins to fester: talented individuals with highly specific skill sets, loaning their work to anyone with a couple thousand credits. Allura, codename "Princess," used to know this lifestyle well, providing for her family by stealing Galra tech--before King Zarkon himself razed her planet in a brutal military assault.Now Allura lends her skills to Voltron, a mysterious company whose sole objective is to dismantle the Galra empire. Her method is deceptively simple: find a job, assemble a team, and pray for victory.--Job: The Castle of LionsTeam: Takashi Shirogane: muscle. Katie "Pidge" Holt: hacker. Lance McClain: grifter. Keith Kogane: thief. Hunk: informant and jack-of-all-trades.Victory: To be decided.
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Allura/Romelle (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter 1

“Princess?” The knock is out of courtesy, a bare rap of knuckles on a partially opened door. “They need to make a decision today.” 

Of course they do. That’s the problem when working with politicians - jam-packed schedules, always, not enough room to take an extra gulp of air. Allura brings a hand to her temple, eyeing the clock across the room. How much longer can she delay? 

“Sooner,” the messenger adds, somewhat faint, “rather than later.” 

Allura sighs. Not long at all. 

“All right,” she relents, dismissing the holographic screens in front of her with a flick of her wrist. “I’ll be there.” She waits until departing footsteps echo, telltale, to stand up and stretch - ungracefully, perhaps, but she’s been sitting for a good portion of the day cycle. Allura scans her office, closet-sized and crowded as ever with plans, maps, classified documents, and printed websheets. With so many successful jobs under her belt, you’d think they could manage a bigger space. 

The significant lack of windows, though, is deliberate rather than a vague snub. Views tend to be a bit scarce a mile underground. 

She can’t help but miss the sun. 

Allura shoulders her bag, and checks her office one more time before stepping into the maze of corridors. Mumbled conversation drifts through the walls - propositions, denials, tentative ideas sketched out in coffee, or the closest they can get to it, stained breath. Allura spent some time on Earth, quite a few years back, but she remembers the bitter taste. Like something had crawled into her mug and died there. 

She’d rather stick to Altean beverages, as outdated as they are. 

The conference room isn’t far from her office, and when she arrives, sure enough, all five holo-screens are poised and activated. Allura closes the door and slides into the nearest chair. Directly opposite her, the disgruntled, blue-tinged faces of a tech surveillance company CEO, the leader of the Blade of Marmora - masked, as usual - a grizzled, stooping king, a chief of police, and, looking slightly out of place, a shipyard manager streaked with grime, all glower threateningly through hazy lines of static. 

Before she can say anything, the CEO - a Mr. Steele, she recalls - raises a bureaucratic hand. “This idea of yours is quite unpopular, Princess Allura.” 

She should’ve known. 

“I can’t barter one of my best employees,” he continues, “for the sake of such a risky, not to mention inexperienced, group.” 

“They’re not--“ 

“Furthermore,” interrupts the chief of police, a decorated M. Tavir, and Allura snaps her jaw shut with irritation. “There is still the question as to why you have chosen some of these -“ He glances down at the folder presumably in front of him, brow furrowed - “ _criminals_ to accompany you. I don’t doubt the majority of them will have some ulterior motive, on the chance they actually agree to this harebrained scheme in the first place. I may speak for myself, but there are others present who feel placing valuable assets in the company of intergalactic thieves and liars may encourage these people to...overstep their bounds, Princess.” 

Allura takes a deep breath. “These _criminals,_ ” she repeats, “as you are so apt to point out, possess both the detailed knowledge and the niche skills required for this particular job.” Tavir glances at his folder again, scowl lines deepening. “And you underestimate me severely if you think I have organized this team without some kind of leverage under my belt.” 

“Leverage?” 

The Blade Leader sits forward, but he doesn’t need to - shivers erupt down Allura’s spine, and she steels herself before responding: “Yes, sir.” 

He doesn’t ask her to elaborate, a fortuitous or ruinous thing. 

Maybe she _should’ve_ given the coffee a second chance. 

“Twenty-four hours,” Allura says, gritting her teeth. “If I succeed, you’ll have a valuable pawn for the rebellion. If I lose, you’ll gain the incarceration of a few dangerous criminals.” 

“And the capture of an extremely valuable ship,” notes the shipyard manager, thick accent like a black sheep among so many poised diplomats, but out of all of them, he is the one Allura would rather talk to. 

“I need the ship to ensure maximum efficiency,” she explains. “Its capabilities fit the job perfectly, and I would defend it with my life if need be.” 

Silence drops between the holo-screens, imperceptible static lines dancing across grim faces. Allura flattens her hands against the conference table, but her heart is racing, thrumming underneath her skin. _If I pull this off…_

“Twenty-four hours,” agrees the king, closing his folder. “I think I speak for the majority when I say we will demand a heavy consolation fee if particular employees do not find their way home. I also expect the imprisonment of any members considered illicit upon the dubious success of your job. Do I make myself clear?” 

Allura fights to keep her voice calm. Her mind, though, is already spinning, recalling engineering plans, flipping through psych evals and unsealed criminal records. “I won’t let you down.” 

“See that you don’t.” 

The holo-screens fade to black. Allura stands up from the conference table, no longer underground; instead, a million miles away, underneath the gilded ceilings and sprawling purple skies of Xena - planet of heroes. 

_If I pull this off, our names will be memorialized in history books for eons to come._

\- - 

Xena. 

Planet of heroes. 

Planet of two suns, too many beaches to count, and tourists swarming the cities like flies, headscarves and brightly colored umbrellas marking them as foreigners to the heat. Shiro had been a foreigner, at first - had spent ten minutes too long in the outdoor community cooling cubicles like everybody else. Walk-in refrigerators, almost. Had reminded him of home… 

What do lizards do in the desert? 

Xena, planet of a thousand labyrinthine corridors criss-crossing beneath the planet’s surface. From shopping markets to apartments and houses to entertainment centers (clubs and bars, mostly), there’s little need to venture above-ground before the sun(s)set. Everything you could ever need or want. Just one-point-three miles underground. 

Shiro snorts into his glass. He’s starting to think like one of those stale tourist advertisements, blaring in billboards across the surface or under-surface of nearly every other planet he’s visited. Xena is the worst, though, a real Bermuda Triangle. Virtually two planets in one. What’s not to love? 

His job, for one. He should’ve never gotten into the business, but it’d been so _alluring_ \- free travel, free meals, all-expenses paid. They kept throwing around all these glittery, shiny words, less like work and more like a much-needed vacation. And sure enough, he’d taken the bait. 

“Can I top you off?” asks the bartender, a many-limbed, seemingly genderless anthromorph. _Must be useful,_ Shiro thinks. “Sure,” he says out loud. “Thanks.” 

There’d been other bait, too - Shiro’s been around long enough to know when flattery lacks substance. _You can’t keep this up forever,_ they’d convinced him. _Everyone hits their peak. Where else to go when you’ve made it to the top?_

On Xena, though, nobody recognizes him. On Xena, Shiro is King Jiulu’s sworn protector, the silent, ever-vigilant bodyguard. The guy who can kill you fifty different ways with a paper clip; who doesn’t need a gun to look deadly. 

He used to be okay with that. 

But now… 

“Man, I’d give you another,” says the bartender. _Slow night?_ Shiro thinks. “But I can’t have you drinking yourself to death.” 

Funny, he doesn’t feel that drunk. “How many have I had?” 

“Oh, a handful.” 

That’s helpful. Shiro props his elbows up on the counter, casting a few covert glances from side to side. This bar, one of many in the bustling underground metropolis, is fairly empty, thanks to an early sun(s)set and a cool, brisk night. Most of the lizards - pardon, _tourists_ \- have already crawled their way to the planet’s surface. 

“No worries,” Shiro says. “I’m off-duty.”

“Yeah?” The bartender swipes an obligatory rag without looking. “What d’you do?” 

“Bodyguard,” he answers, and then, without thinking: “For King Jiulu.” 

Okay so, uh, maybe he’s a little drunk. 

But the bartender just raises an eyebrow-looking thing, unimpressed or maybe they’ve just heard the same story before, although Shiro knows he looks the part. Battle scars and metal arm and all. 

On Xena, nobody realizes his metal arm is actually Galra tech. 

“Don’t know why,” the bartender mutters after a while, reaching across to refill Shiro’s glass, “but I almost believe you.” 

“Must be the muscles.” Some people say it’s the look in his eyes - like if you pushed the right buttons, a whole Shakesperian tragedy would come flooding out. 

The bartender shrugs. “Wouldn’t it be easier to let the old man die?” 

“Sorry?” 

“King Jiulu.” Now the bartender’s back faces Shiro, the distinct clink of glass bottles echoing slightly through the empty room. “Not well liked, at least not around here.” 

“Sure, but not many people dislike someone enough to kill them.” 

“So it’s boring, then?” 

Shiro decides he has to be at least tipsy, because for the life of him, he can’t follow this conversation at all. “What’s boring?” 

The bartender laughs, still turned around. “Being his watchdog.” 

“Oh.” _Yes._ “There are some perks.” _Not nearly enough._

“Have you ever considered taking a new job?” 

_Only every single day in the past Earth-month._ “Sometimes.” 

“What about a test run?” 

“What do you mean?” The bar lights fizzle unexpectedly, throwing sparks; odd, since most alien tech can last for hundreds, thousands of years. He blinks hard, one hand creeping to the holster at his hip. “What are you talking about?” 

“A twenty-four hour job. In and out.” 

“Twenty-four hours…” Shiro wraps a hand around his revolver, but there’s no telltale shiver running down his spine; no spark of nerves, firing of synapses screaming _get out of here!_ Instead, a too-familiar voice begins to prick at the edges of his memory. Shiro fixates on his glass, half-empty, but he doesn’t remember taking even one drink since it was last refilled. “How dangerous?” 

“The most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.” The bartender still hasn’t turned around, and Shiro thinks he might finally have an inkling as to why. The ambiguous voice cracks with excitement, pitching almost too high for an indigenous Xenian. “You’d have to be lucky or crazy or both to pull it off.” 

_You’d have to be crazy to come back here._

He forces a conversational tone. “Yeah?” 

“King Jiulu won’t miss you for longer than a day. You’re off-duty now, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t be drinking like this.” Shiro braces his hands against the underside of the counter, eyes locked on the back of the bartender’s head. “Ten thousand credits for twenty-four hours.” 

“How do I know I can trust you?” 

The bartender hesitates. 

Shiro _jumps_ \- muscles coiling together, and then releasing in one precise snap, vaulting his body across the counter, until he’s staring into the face of the faceless bartender, one hand locked around their throat. 

“ _You_ ,” he grits out. 

Allura smiles widely, perfect teeth glinting in the warm light. “That’s how you know,” she says, reaching up to dislodge Shiro’s grip. “Now do we have a deal?” 

\- - 

“I thought we had a deal,” Pidge snaps viciously, dropping their headphones to rest around their neck. 

The underling - sorry, _hacker-in-training_ \- blanches colorfully and Pidge smirks, sliding a glance at their computer screen. “Five minutes,” they add, fingers flying across the keyboard. “No peeking. Didn’t you listen?” 

The underling stutters, half-bowing, half-apologizing, until he gives up and ducks out of the room altogether. Pidge grins again and raises their headphones. The vault is soundproof, every chord and drumbeat amplified tenfold - just the way they like it. Perfect focus. 

_Almost...there…_

“Pidge Holt!” 

Pidge’s heart gives a terrific leap, nerves skittering underneath their skin. The laptop, unfortunately, takes the brunt of the assault, toppling from their lap and sprawling across the hard metal floor. For the second time, Pidge wrenches the headphones from their ears. “What part,” they demand, twisting around, “of _five fucking minutes_ do you knuckleheads not understand?” 

Ice-blue eyes stare calmly back. “Your five minutes are up,” the man replies calmly, retrieving Pidge’s spilled computer. “Are you finished?” 

Pidge stabs at a button on the keyboard. Seconds later, a console on the opposite wall beeps approvingly, flashing vibrant green, and the vault door _wooshes_ open. “Yes.” 

“I have another assignment for you.” 

“What? But I just - “ 

“No complaints, Pidge.” The man - Mauris Steele, all-around asshole, aristocrat, and unfortunately, Pidge’s boss - extends his hand, brandishing a thick manilla file. “We’ll finish up here.” 

“I’m not going back to the office,” Pidge argues. “I just cracked your vault - you’re welcome, by the way. Don’t I at least get to know what was inside?” 

“I’m afraid this takes precedent,” Mauris says, sounding not very afraid at all. Pidge scowls - they know they’re not exactly the tallest or the strongest, but Mauris has been vying at this vault for weeks. 

Pidge tries again. “I don’t - “

“That’s _enough_ , Holt.” Mauris claps his hands, and the other underlings and less useful employees flood into the vault, crowding at the now-unlocked door. Including the underling from earlier. Pidge scowls at him. “If you’re not going back to office, at least wait outside,” Mauris reconciles, before pushing his way through the crowd like some rich, hedonistic Moses. Pidge stands on tiptoe as he coaxes the vault door open, but they can’t see over the heads. 

Pidge snatches up their computer and stalks out of the vault room with a huff. _Dickheads._

The worst part is, this isn’t the first time Mauris, or some other interfering manager, has knocked Pidge out of the spotlight. Like it’s too much for some teenage hacker to represent the face of tech companies across the galaxy. 

“They should be grateful I’m working for them,” Pidge mutters darkly, heaving themselves onto the cold, iridescent floor, tailbone cracking painfully. “Could’ve hacked their assets instead.” 

They used to. Oh, those were the days...no meddling CEOs telling them what to do. No windowless offices (to prevent _distractions,_ of course), or spending hours trying to hack into underground vaults. Pidge remembers sitting in the hull of the spaceship they’d cobbled together, with a little help from an old friend back on Earth, watching the sun (or suns) rise on whatever planet they’d decided to stop at for the week. 

Back then, Pidge’s skills had been sharp, razor-sharp. Back then, they were one step away from hacking into one of the biggest Galra terminals ever pinged. 

And then - 

_And then…_

Pidge flips open the folder Mauris had given them, squinting disinterestedly at the pages dyed musty yellow thanks to a single bulb quivering overhead. Boring stuff: mostly names and psych evals and personality tests. So Mauris wants to double-down on a couple of unruly clients. It happens, every so often - hack the systems, convince the victims to upgrade their security, and pocket a little extra money. Couldn’t one of the underlings do this? Individual clients were rarely a challenge… 

Wait. 

Pidge’s heart doubles; skips a beat. 

Is that…? 

“You know some of them,” agrees Mauris, leaning against the doorframe. “Others you should know by reputation.” 

“What is this?” 

“A job.” 

“Don’t treat me like a kid, Mauris.” 

“If I treated you like a child, which you are,” he shoots back, “you wouldn’t be taking this job in the first place?” 

“What changed your mind?” Pidge’s skills aren’t exactly replaceable. 

“A high consolation fee.” 

“Wow.” 

“And an opportunity,” Mauris adds, voice dropping imperceptibly. He casts a glance over his shoulder, but the hallway is empty; the underlings are still busy with the vault. “One of those names is very precious to me.” 

“Let me guess.” Pidge opens the folder, withdraws a single, printed sheet, and raises it enough for Mauris to see. He nods once. “I want you to find all you can on that person. Keep an eye on them.” 

“A Pidge eye?” Pidge grins crookedly, and even Mauris cracks a small smile. “You know what I mean.”

Yeah, Pidge knows. The old spark is starting to come back, just when they thought they’d lost it. Running through their veins like a double shot of espresso. “So when do I start?” 

“Tomorrow,” Mauris says. “Pack your overnight bag, Holt. You’re headed to Galra territory.” 

\- - 

“Where are you headed, Mr. Castillo?” 

Lance flashes his tourist smile, the one tailored specifically for these kinds of situation - all closed lips, teeth barely poking out. _White person’s smile,_ his family used to joke. “Kanzichi Museum of Ancient Art,” he responds, sliding into the backseat. “Thanks.” 

The pilot half-nods, eyes tracking Lance’s triple-digit coat, his perfectly styled hair, and the thin-framed, yet undeniably expensive glasses perched on his nose. _Yeah, keep looking_ , Lance thinks sourly. Out loud: “And could you hurry, please? I’m running a bit late.” 

AKA, rich person’s code for “if you hurry, I’ll pay you fifty credits extra.” Lance knows this game well, and forces another smile, wide and guileless. _Fake it ‘till you make it, huh?_

The pilot nods and floors it. 

Lance keeps his smile steady until he hears the stereo up front crackle to life, some kind of reedy, flute-like whistle straining through the speakers. Then he buzzes the glass partition shut. He’s not entirely certain that this ship isn’t bugged, and he weighs the odds briefly before dropping his head against the tinted windows, facade slipping away.

Truth be told, Lance wants this night to be over. City lights flash behind his eyelids, piercingly neon, reminding him of the sleep he’s missed for almost a week. _Whoever said New York is the city that never…_

It’s not just the missed hours, though; something, Lance suspects, has been awry for a while. The whole galaxy seems frustratingly on edge, familiar radio frequencies all of a sudden turning to static; old friends dropping off the map. Securing even this job, a blip on Lance’s normal radar, was ten times harder than it should’ve been. 

Or maybe he’s just losing his touch. 

Lance sighs, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. He needs a vacation. 

_He needs…_

A sharp rap of knuckles on the partition makes him bolt upright, suddenly thankful for blackened glass. He buzzes it back down, readjusting his glasses. 

“Your stop, Mr. Castillo,” says the pilot, overly gleeful; probably marveling at his luck of getting away with several speed limit breaks. Lance reaches into his coat pocket and forks over a single, glossy card. “Thanks.” 

He steps out the shuttle. Pitch-black sky looms overhead, both moonless and starless, since this particular planet lacks both earthly features. Instead, hundreds of small lights float above inches above the ground, luminescent yet oddly transparent, and thankfully lacking the sharp, pigmented tint of typical intercity decor. 

The pilot hands the card back. Lance tucks it away, cracks his neck, and checks his watch. _Perfect timing, as usual._ “Thanks,” he says again. Can’t hurt to be too polite. “You have a good night, sir.” 

On second thought, maybe it can hurt. A tiny furrow appears between the pilot’s eyes, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t spend four years in specialized training, but he climbs back into the shuttle without comment. 

Lance winces, and, out of habit, checks his watch again. He’s far too jittery tonight, nerves sliding underneath his skin like loose change, making mistakes he knows he shouldn’t make. Maybe a vacation back home, Lance thinks. A little sun; little sand. The pilot peels away, off into the velvety night. _Dios,_ he really misses Earth… 

“Mr. Castillo?” 

Lance snaps awake, head jerking upright. The museum curator stands on the marble steps in front of him, silhouette illuminated cheerfully. “Mr. Castillo, lovely to see you again,” she says. 

“Yes, you too.” Lance eyes her, although he’s become excruciating familiar with her visage both on paper and in person: 7”4 (average height), deep violet skin, and a pair of webbed, almost skeletally-thin wings folded primly against her back. A nametag pinned to her blazer declares: KOYA. 

Koya extends a clawed, purple hand. “University I.D?” 

“Oh - “ Lance retrieves the small card, a relic from a long-ago partnership, and passes it over. Man, he hasn’t thought about those days in _forever_. “Here.” 

She scans the card as they walk - up the marble steps and through the massive, stained glass doors. “Which collection today, Mr. Castillo?” 

“Pottery,” he responds. “Home ec, if you’ve got it.” He knows they do. “I’m actually looking for something in one of the storage vaults. Can you tell me about ancient Altean cooking methods?” 

Koya smiles widely at him as they pass through security and enter the vast museum lobby. Then she leads him to the elevators, babbling away about pottery and clay molds and nutritious soil and ancient ritualistic kilns, educational junk the real Alex Castillo would love to hear, and that on any other night Lance would usually pay attention to, but right now he just can’t bring himself to tune in, letting the information filter uselessly through his brain instead.

 _One more hour,_ Lance internalizes hopefully, _and I’ll be off this stupid planet._

He follows Koya into a small, secondary elevator, not regularly used for tourists. Thankfully, Alex Castillo isn’t just a tourist - he’s a wealthy university undergrad looking to research ancient Altean artifacts and their survival upon the planet’s demise. Some kind of textile engineering degree, Lance is pretty sure. Real exciting stuff. 

The research had been _tedious._

Still, he’s expecting a quadruple-digit payout for this gig, enough to fix up his ship for a jump back to Earth. Memories flood Lance’s head, of bright Cuban beaches and, of course, his family, sitting around the dinner table with some homemade _boliche…_

The elevator dings cheerfully, the doors slide open with a faint _hiss,_ and Koya beckons, shocking Lance back to the present. “Now, what was that artifact you wanted to see?” 

The artifact in question, a piece of ancient dishware, is poised safely in its glass case, alongside kinetic sensors and DNA (or its alien equivalent) I.D scanners. Usually, it’s out on display, bulked with even more security, but Lance had pulled some strings (story of his life) and called the piece in for a cleaning and check-up service the night before, causing the artifact to be labeled “unfit for public consumption” until verified by museum staff. 

Yeah. Gotta love that museum paranoia, right? 

The curator unlocks the case, allowing Lance to view the artifact from all angles. Unbeknownst to her, however, both of Lance’s eyes are fitted with custom (stolent) contact lenses, rendering a perfect, 3-D copy of the artifact itself. The copy is automatically sent to and printed in Lance’s ship, hovering about six blocks away in a barely-legal port. 

Now for the tricky part. 

Koya is still chatting, something about priceless preservation methods and unexplored smelting techniques, and Lance replies on autopilot, keeping her busy. At the same time, he finagles inside his coat for the university I.D he’d given to Koya earlier - the one she helpfully carried through security while he distracted her. Because all curators are required to carry a stun revolver in case of emergencies, their genetic code is essentially “blacklisted” from the security systems at the museum entrance. Instead, they undergo regular checks at the beginning and end of their shift. 

But he’s digressing. 

Lance peels off a barcode sticker on his I.D to reveal an imperceptible string of code. He scans it into his cell phone - tapped during security to scan for viruses - takes a deep breath, and activates the command. 

Koya’s monologue dies mid-sentence as a shrill beeping fills the air: hundreds of kinetic sensors firing at once. She cuts an immediate, accusatory glare at Lance, who raises both empty hands in the air. “Check my pockets,” he says. 

She does, and finds only the I.D and the cell phone. 

“There’s an intercom at the elevator,” Koya says, huffing at him. Lance tries his best to look innocent. “I know you’re some kind of prodigy, but I’m sure you still have college loans to pay, so if anything here goes missing I’m pointing all my fingers at you.” 

Lance smiles at her. 

As soon as she turns her back, though, he digs out his phone again and accesses one of his apps: a popular navigation bit used primarily by large shipping companies. Enter your location, connect your device to a ship or transporter device, and press the button. 

And despite everything - the nerves, the exhaustion, the... _whatever_ hanging over this part of the galaxy like a massive thundercloud - Lance feels it. The familiar, white-hot thrill setting all his nerves on fire. 

He presses the button - kinetic sensors already activated, no need to worry - and watches as the original ancient Altean piece of dishware disappears, replaced by a very convincing 3-D superimposed fake. 

_Victory._

When Koya returns, Lance makes his excuses and hurries out of the museum, dropping his lenses into the nearest gutter. The night air, cool against his face, smells refreshingly of lavender, but the exhilaration from earlier has already vanished. Lance runs a hand through his hair, wincing at the sticky, lingering feel of gel. 

A cold, familiar weight settles back into the pit of his stomach. 

Lance’s ship is dark and silent when he reaches it. He checks the windows for parking tickets - thankfully, none, but it’s not like he’d pay them anyway - before climbing through the hatch, eyes adjusting easily to a dim, reddish glow. 

The souped-up 3-D printer sits next to the hatch, cracked Altean dishware balancing precariously on its tray. Lance manages a tired smile. If he can get out of the atmosphere and put the controls on autopilot, maybe he’ll get a couple hours sleep before - 

Lance wrinkles his nose. 

Is that... _coffee?_

This is turning out to be a seriously long night. 

Lance draws his revolver and backtracks, out of the main hull and to his tiny, makeshift kitchen, where an empty mug sits on a sheet of plywood. Well, mostly empty. Cold black sludge curls at the bottom, reeking of double shots. 

A wild thought shoots through Lance’s brain. _No, it can’t be._

How long has it _been?_

Lance backtracks - again - to the ship’s hull, and this time, there’s a nest of fluffy brown hair sticking up over the back of his pilot’s chair, wrist slung over the armest, coffee mug clutched between small fingers. 

Still, Lance squints. “ _Pidge?_ ” 

The chair spins around, same green sweatshirt, wire-frame lenses and all. “Hey, Lance,” Pidge says, having the decency to look at least a little guilty. “We need to talk.” 

\- - 

Keith is _not_ going to talk. 

He’s run this track before - the whole dry mouth, cramped limbs, pounding headache, roiling stomach. As a rule, Keith doesn’t eat before jobs, but he also doesn’t expect to be captured and thrown into a jail cell for...eight hours and twenty-three minutes, and counting. 

He stretches, spine cracking against the cold concrete wall. 

The whole job had been rigged from the start, of course, but that’s the way Keith likes it: impossible odds, a name passed quietly from hand to hand, the kind of infamy that festers in shadowed rooms. Prison cells don’t matter if you can break out of them without leaving even a trace of yourself behind. 

_But one day,_ a voice whispers in the back of his mind, _it’s all going to catch up to you._

Keith scowls, bringing a hand to his aching temple. He’s been hearing that voice a lot lately, another symptom of whatever epidemic is spreading across the galaxy. Keith may not talk much, but he listens. Across bar counters, in hotel lobbies, jumping planets every other night. Come to think of it, he hasn’t heard from the Blade in a while… 

The door to his cell clatters open, bouncing hard against the opposite wall. 

Keith glances up lazily through his bangs. 

“You’re next, kid,” says the guard, two pairs of well-muscled arms folded across his chest. 

“Cool,” says Keith. He stretches again, cracks his neck, and pulls himself upright, following the guard down a dimly-lit corridor. He can’t help but notice that they pass no other cells before the guard stops and ushers him into yet another windowless room, similar to his previous cell, except with a single table in the center of the floor, two plastic chairs, and a cheerful lack of metal bars. 

“Sit down,” says the guard. 

“Cool,” says Keith again. 

The guard squints suspiciously at him. 

Keith sits down. 

He hears, behind him, the door snap quietly shut, and he wonders for a moment if he’ll be sitting here for another eight hours when it opens again, throwing a small shaft of light onto the floor. 

“Keith Kogane,” says a voice just familiar enough to tickle at the back of Keith’s consciousness. 

“Maybe,” Keith says, making an effort not to scrunch his nose in memory. “You gonna tell me who you are?” 

The man circles around the table, taking his seat across from Keith. Sure enough, his face is nothing recognizable, angled planes cast in dim shadow from the single lamp swinging overhead ( _so_ cliche, Keith thinks, but he kind of likes it); silver hair buzzed short, and thick eyebrows drawn low over hawkish eyes. 

“Detective Dupin,” the man responds. 

He doesn’t say anything else, so Keith offers a roguish grin and says, for the third time, “Cool.” 

Dupin’s face doesn’t change. “Do you plan to talk?” 

“Nope.” 

“Do you mind if I do?” 

“Nope.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“Nope,” says Keith, yawning. “Light ‘em up, cowboy.” 

Dupin withdraws and slots between his lips the most impassive cigarette known to man (or alien) kind. 

_God, I’m really in a noir detective film,_ Keith thinks, watching silvery smoke curl around the room. 

“I’ve read your file,” says Dupin. “All three pages of it.” 

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” 

“I thought you weren’t going to talk.” 

Keith can’t resist. “You’re going to wish I wouldn’t.” 

Dupin leans back in his chair, front two legs lifting off the ground. “If you want to know, it’s a compliment,” he says. “Your name is infamous underground, but officially, we don’t know shit about you. Even your previous prison stints have been wiped clean.” 

“Then how do you know I’ve been to prison before?” 

“Lucky guess.” 

“Story of your life, I bet.” 

Dupin almost smiles, despite himself. “That being said, I imagine you already have a plan to escape this particular hole.” 

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s still in the works.” 

“Well, what if I could offer you a different, somewhat more _legal,_ route?” 

Without warning, Keith slaps the table, relishing the satisfying sting of cheap, recycled plastic. “Dirty cop - I _knew_ it!”

Dupin waits patiently for the reverberations to fade before leaning forward - chair settling back on the ground with a dull thump - and saying, “I am a detective, not a cop.” 

“Eh, same difference.” 

Dupin rolls his eyes, facade finally beginning to slip. “Hear me out, Kogane. I’m offering you a twenty-four hour job, expenses paid, no strings attached - “

“Hold on, Lupin, I’m a thief, not a stripper.” 

“Dupin.” 

“Eh.” Keith grins. “Same difference.” 

“No strings attached,” Dupin presses determinedly. “You finish the job, you get your money, you move on. Prison record wiped - _again_ \- with no extra maneuvering or bribery on your part. What do you say?” 

“Who are you working for?” 

“M. Tavir.” 

Keith squints. “Who is _he_ working for?” 

Dupin opens his mouth, _this close_ to responding, when the door squeaks open again, and the voice that interrupts is _definitely_ familiar, cutting through Keith’s memories like an icy knife. 

_Fuck._

“You’ve heard of Princess Allura,” says Takashi Shirogane, circling the table so he can lean against the opposite wall, too-clever eyes narrowed to points. _Damn, he hasn’t changed a bit._ “Haven’t you, Keith?” 

Keith closes his eyes, cursing every bit of karma and bad luck that has somehow joined forces to bring him to this exact, excruciating, nightmarish moment. God, he should’ve known. He should’ve ditched this stupid middle-of-nowhere piece of shit excuse for a prison when he had the chance. Or maybe he should’ve just taken dirty cop Dupin up on his offer without opening his fucking mouth. 

Curiosity killed the cat, right? 

Keith groans and drops his head into his arms. 

He’s _fucked._

\-- 

Nobody has to tell Hunk. 

They say the grapevine begins and ends in his ear. 

He pours a row of bright purple shots, listening to the iridescent clamor and bustle of the Castle of Lions - the largest, grandest, and most coveted cluster of nightclubs, bars, and entertainment facilities this side of the galaxy. A patron sweeps the tray of shots into his hand, and the next order arrives, a complex martini Hunk could mix in his sleep. 

He listens distantly to the chatter, rumors traded between wine-soaked lips, hyena laughter ripping through the air, tall tales engorged and shiny underneath the bright neon lights. 

When it’s handed to him, he tucks the small business card into his pocket, a minimalistic thing with only two lines of black text: a hotel room and a time. 

He smiles to himself, just once. 

Nobody has to tell Hunk. 

Living as a double agent in the middle of Galra space will do that to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so......i started writing this with no actual idea of where i want it to go, but i'm definitely into the whole spy/thief/noir/space opera aesthetic, so who knows!! (also you can pry cuban!lance and korean!keith from my cold dead hands thanks)
> 
> just a quick warning, updates will probably be very slow and sporadic since again i have no idea what i'm doing. also unbeta'd but i proofread it like nine times so hopefully there's not too much to fix. 
> 
> also this fic is supposed to be klance centric and the rest of it will probably be told from keith's (or lance's) points of view, i know the summary makes it seem like it's all about allura but uh. yeah. surprise!! it's not!!!! but i promise i won't do her dirty, i love my girl (looking at the og voltron writers....) 
> 
> thanks for reading! :)


	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t even _want_ to know,” Lance says, glowering, “what kind of fuckery you pulled to get onto my ship.” 

Pidge grins widely, canines stained with coffee grounds. “Sorry, but it wasn’t that hard. You left the garbage chute open.” 

“Oh, my bad, I didn’t think I was in danger from my vertically challenged Garrison roommate - you know, the one I haven’t seen in _four fucking years - "_

Grifter or not, the old anger surges without warning, and Lance feels it on his face, burning white-hot. Pidge raises their hands, backtracking visibly. “Now hold on, I’m not the one who - “

“What, flunked out?” 

“I wasn’t going to - “ 

“Well, we both know it’s true,” Lance snaps. “What the hell are you doing here, Pidge? And what happened to sending a fucking Christmas card every once in a while?” 

“You don’t celebrate Christmas, and neither do I.” 

“Hey, for all you know, I do now.” 

Pidge groans, a familiar prick of irritation at the edges of their voice. “Lance, for fuck’s sake, get your head out of your ass and stop acting like a child. You haven’t changed a bit since the Garrison.” 

That hurts more than Lance cares to admit, but he’s stewed for four years; he can stew a bit longer. “Fine,” Lance relents, sighing. “Can you get out of my chair, at least?” 

“Huh? Oh - ” Pidge looks down, apparently just now realizing Lance doesn’t have a co-pilot’s chair - just an empty space where someone could lean against his control console, maybe. “Sorry. Guess you don’t get visitors much, huh?” 

Despite himself, Lance has to stifle a snort of laughter. God, if Pidge only knew… 

“Anyway, it’s really been four years,” they continue. “I can’t believe how different you look.” 

“And you don’t look a day over fifteen,” Lance comments, unable to resist, and Pidge swats at him. “It’s the work,” they defend. “Lack of sunlight stunts my growth.” 

“Lack of sunlight? _Dios_ , Pidge, don’t tell me you - ” 

“Oh, God, no. No, I…” Pidge adjusts their glasses unconsciously - a move, Lance notes, from their days back at the Garrison. “Hey, uh, listen. You got any more coffee?” 

Lance sighs internally. His second wind is beginning to fade, leaving the same, lingering exhaustion from earlier. But on the other hand, he can’t exactly dump Pidge on the sidewalk - they’re formidable with a computer, sure, but they also have a terrible penchant for stumbling into the worst possible situations. Lance definitely remembers his Garrison days, despite popular belief. 

Plus... well, just because Pidge looks the same - eerily the _exact_ same, what’s up with that? - doesn’t mean they haven’t been messing around in the four years since Lance has seen them. _And they’d been pretty determined,_ Lance muses, _to convince him that a prison stint wasn’t involved…_

He puts on his best grin, dripping with all of Garrison-Lance’s old charm, and says, “Sure thing, Pidge, but only if you’ve got answers.” 

And, as expected, Pidge bites cheerfully. “Sleazy as ever,” they quip, extending a presumptuous hand. “Snacks, too?” 

Lance’s ship, affectionately dubbed _Gatita,_ isn’t particularly durable, flashy, or well-stocked, meant for two, three-day voyages at the most. There’s the main hull, a closet-sized bunking space, an over-glorified engine room, a bathroom Lance prefers to avoid at all costs, and finally, the kitchen(ette): ten square feet of waxy floor and ugly manila light; a single countertop with a couple Star Trek-esque pieces of cookware; and a terran coffeepot Lance salvaged from a garage sale almost ten years ago. He balances Pidge’s coffee mug underneath the spigot, refills the water (recycled water, always a hit), and presses the button. 

“Recycled grounds, too?” says Pidge, making a face. 

“You’re welcome,” Lance points out. “Now start talking.” 

Pidge opens their mouth, likely to complain, but Lance jerks a thumb at the now-gurgling coffeepot, and Pidge sighs instead and rolls their eyes. “Charming, too. At least let me get comfortable first, jeez.” 

Lance leans against the wall, and Pidge jumps up onto the narrow counter with a deceptively dainty hop, facing him. “Believe it or not,” they say, “I’m not just here because I want to be. For the last two years, I’ve been on payroll for a man named Mauris Steele.” 

Everything inside Lance flinches violently, but he manages to keep himself still - and his voice nonchalant. “Steele, like the CEO of SteelTech?” 

“Yeah.” Pidge makes a face. “He isn’t the first asshole aristocrat I’ve worked for, and he definitely won’t be the last. Steele likes to keep his offices hidden because he thinks architecture is the new computer, or something, so that’s why I’ve been underground.”

“Wait, Pidge, hold up.” Lance is still scrambling to connect all the pieces. “Pidge, you know Mauris Steele is a Galra sellout, right?” 

“No, I have no idea what technology is and I’ve been living under a rock,” Pidge retorts sarcastically. “Coffee’s done, by the way.” 

Lance barely avoids glowering at them as he retrieves the mug. “And Mauris isn’t a Galra sellout,” Pidge continues. “He’s just a sellout. Highest bidder, and all that bougie shit. He’s too rich to care about bullet holes.” 

“He’s still a - “ 

“Yeah, and we promised in elementary we’d never do drugs, but times are a little tough, Lance, try and have some pity.” 

“ _Dios_ , Pidge, put the fangs away, will you? I’m just making sure you know what side you’re on.” 

“If you’d let me finish, _you’d_ know what side I’m on, too.” Pidge takes a deep pull from their coffee mug, making it look like a cold beer instead of the strongest, cheapest grounds Lance could afford. “Last night, Mauris gave me a job offer.”

“For?” 

Pidge breaths in. “Voltron.” 

This time, Lance really does flinch. He thinks about every childhood legend he’s every grown up with and manages, passionately, “You’re fucking _kidding_ me.” 

“I don’t even know how they found me,” Pidge admits. “I’ve been pretty spotless. But I do know that it’s not _just_ me. Voltron - or whoever’s in charge - put together a team for a twenty-four hour con: one hacker, one thief, a muscle, a jack, and a grifter. Of course, when I saw you were on the lineup, I had to check for myself.” Pidge throws him a meaningful glance. 

Lance frowns, rolling their words through his head - once; twice. _Grifter...on the lineup…_

Then it hits him like a fucking truck. 

“Oh no no _hell_ no,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Now _I’m_ part of this?” Lance presses a hand to his forehead, a telltale ache already beginning to brew. “Don’t I at least get a choice?” 

“Uh, excuse me, but aren’t you Mr. How-Dare-You-Work-For-A-Galra-Sellout?” 

“Yeah, and just ‘cause I have a thing against fascist empires, doesn’t mean I want to be a fucking Skywalker,” he snaps. 

Pidge sets their coffee mug aside with a wicked _thump_ , frowning. “Okay, go and tell Voltron _no_. Tell me how that goes, huh?” 

“Jesus.” 

“There’s a payout.” 

“How much?” 

“Refill?” 

Lance narrows his eyes. “C’mon, Pidge, tell me.” 

“Ten thousand credits.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“What, enough to change your mind?” Pidge half-smirks, nudging their coffee mug again. Lance sighs and sticks it underneath the spigot, watching the last drops of weak brown liquid trickle sadly. “Maybe,” Lance defends. “God, I don’t know. Ten thousand credits for twenty-four hours? There’s gotta be a catch.” 

When Pidge takes their refilled coffee cup in lieu of replying, Lance knows, with a tired sense of finality, that he’s on the right track. “Pidge…” 

“It’s, uh. Well - “

“ _Pidge_.” 

“It’s at the Castle of Lions,” Pidge says in a rush, and then takes a great mouthful of coffee, nearly choking. 

Lance drops his head into his hands. Forget the payout, _that’s_ the last straw: anyone involved in the black market - the resistance, rebellion, whatever you want to call it - knows what the Castle of Lions is. 

Which means they all know to stay well enough away from it. 

_I’ll find a way to get out of this,_ Lance decides wearily. _Tomorrow._. He looks up, watching Pidge drain the last of their third cup of coffee. “Well, it’s been great catching up, but--” 

“There’s one more thing.” 

Lance’s stomach plummets, another surge of exhaustion washing over him. How much more is he supposed to take? 

“Mauris,” Pidge says, “took the liberty of giving me a pigeon.” 

“Since you’re telling me, I’m guessing I’m not it.” 

“Right on, Sherlock. Listen, I probably _shouldn’t_ be telling you, but I’m having some trouble tracking his records. And I know you two didn’t exactly rub elbows, but - “

“Wait wait wait. _You_ can’t find someone?” 

Pidge frowns disapprovingly at him. “It’s not as easy as it looks. I mean, Mauris gave me his folder - “ Pidge reaches into their bag and withdraws a yellowish paper folder, clipped shut. They pass it over. “See for yourself, but there’s not much.” 

Despite himself, Lance takes another moment to revel in the fact that not everything is caught in Pidge’s electronic net, before flipping the folder open, catching sight of the photograph taped to the inside, and - 

_And -_

_I know you two didn’t exactly rub elbows,”_ Pidge had said. _Well, way to hit the nail on the fucking head, Pidge_. 

Even after four years running errands for an intergalactic black market, Lance considers himself the type of person who doesn’t hold very many grudges. Truth be told, he’s only encountered two people in his life he really hates - really, _really_ hates, as in they could be on fire, and Lance would roast marshmallows. 

One: Every Galra, _ever_. 

And two: his old Garrison rival, Keith “ace pilot” Kogane. 

\-- 

Despite the exhaustion like a physical weight pressing him against his mattress, Lance doesn’t sleep. 

Story of his fucking life. 

He leaves Pidge in charge of piloting, mostly because autopilot is a real strainer on his fuel tank, and then there’s the fact that Pidge is still so goddamned trustworthy. Like, it actually hurts a little bit. 

_What, that Pidge is the same bright-eyed kid they’d been at the Garrison, and Lance is a bitter old man in the body of an alcoholic, thieving 21-year-old?_

Lance punches his pillow into a more comfortable shape and scowls. 

Keith Kogane, huh? 

Most Earth kids attend the prestigious Galaxy Garrison Academy because they have a personal vendetta against the Galra (a disturbing majority, actually); or because they’re too poor for college but too rich for trade school (a smaller number, but still enough to irritate); or because they’re just flat-out poor, growing up with no real hope of making a difference - until the rebellion suddenly became important, the demand for soldiers and pilots and mechanics skyrocketed, and recruiters dropped from the sky like marbles, all shiny with empty promises. 

There were only a handful of students like that, though, scrappy and desperate, nervous energy bouncing off the walls. Test scores and simulation evals weren’t just numbers and percentages - ”top of the class” was an all-out competition, rules barred, every person for themselves. 

Well, there were actually only four students. Like that. 

Pidge was third in their grade, and probably should’ve been first, except they had a nasty habit of getting too caught up in “extracurricular” projects. 

And Lance... 

Despite his best efforts, his all-nighters, his caffeine-fueled library marathons and exhaustive Q & A sessions with _every single professor in the goddamned academy_...Lance was doomed to remain perpetually second. 

He gives up and rolls onto his back. 

Since he left Earth, Lance never bothered to give Keith Kogane a second thought - why would he? One memory had been more than enough: smug violet eyes, narrowed to slits, watching from his high-and-mighty horse as Lance was escorted from the academy grounds. Keith won a lot of things, a lot of the time - acing tests and simulations, always, _always_ number one - but the worst part was that Keith won when it really mattered, too. 

God, who is he kidding? 

The worst part was that Keith didn’t even try, a goddamn natural at everything he touched. Keith was the kind of person other people build statues for, and then put them outside the dorms so desperate students could do some stupid ritual like kiss the statue’s feet because they think it’ll bring them luck, or something. Keith didn’t just have a following; he had a fanclub that reeked of aristocratic talent and daddy’s money. 

And he made it perfectly clear he didn’t need any of them to succeed. 

Lance punched him, once - surprisingly _not_ the event that led to his eventual expulsion. It wasn’t the culmination of their rivalry, either; just another symptom, like the time Keith disappeared from classes for a week and came back only to steal the top spot in their flight simulators, or the time Lance studied for sixteen hours and scored one point lower than Keith on an advanced physics test. 

And then it didn’t matter anymore. 

Because Lance flunked out. 

Because he stole a ship and fled his home planet, and stumbled headfirst into this mess of rebels and rebellion and stealing and lying, and some kind of tyrannical Galra dictatorship, and all Lance really wants is to go back _home_. 

Because he never thought he’d see Keith Kogane again. 

Lance sighs into the empty room. 

Then he pushes back the blankets, grabs his jacket, and jumps down from his bunk, padding through the silent, humming ship, and into the main hull where Pidge is sitting, knees tucked to their chest, watching a video on their phone as a sea of stars swirls around them. 

“Can’t sleep?” Pidge says without turning around, and it’s not much of a question. 

“How far are we?” Lance asks. 

“Something like eight hours. We’ll hit the Castle at prime time, just after dusk. Coordinates,” Pidge adds, tapping the small, glowing navigator, “are right here if you don’t believe me.” 

Lance chooses to ignore that bit. “I can take over,” he offers. “If you want to get some sleep.” 

“You sure?” 

“I’m not exactly getting any.” 

“Fair, fair.” Pidge uncurls themselves, tucking their phone away. “Mind if I use the shower?” 

“Knock yourself out. Hey - ” He catches Pidge’s arm, half-turning them, and warns, “Hot water only lasts five minutes.” 

“Thanks.” 

When the echo of Pidge’s footsteps disappears, turning a corner, Lance raises the folder he’d lifted from their bag. _Bingo_. 

He sits down, propping the folder against an empty space on the control console, and raises a dim light - green-tinted because he couldn’t afford normal bulbs, so he had to use colored ones when he repaired the lighting system. 

_Okay, Keith,_ Lance thinks to himself, stretching. _Let’s see what you’ve been doing in the past four years._

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long before Lance realizes that Pidge wasn’t kidding - beyond the photo, there’s not much else. Lance eyes an old transcript from the Garrison, an expired motorcycle license, a blurry photo of some desert shack, and - _oh, this could be interesting_ \- a psych eval, with a couple extra notes at the bottom. 

Lance props his elbows against the console. 

Keith’s the resident thief, he finds out quickly, but the paper trail ends there: no prison records, investigations, ship repairs, or medical exams - not even a hint of a _hint_ of evidence that Keith Kogane is, in fact, a living person. Lance knows from painful experience it’s impossible to be this clean. Even Garrison prodigies need to fix up their ships at some point. 

Which means someone is deliberately wiping Keith’s record for him. 

_Maybe it’s Voltron,_ Lance muses, scanning the rest of the document. _Since they’re obviously the ones who wrote this_. Words like _loyal_ and _hard-working_ jump out at him, and he scowls, finally pushing the folder aside. He can’t help but wonder if his own evaluations are that generous. 

Probably not. 

Lance yawns and stretches again, the _pop_ of his shoulders echoing loudly through the empty hull. By now, Pidge is no doubt fast asleep, and a deep silence permeates Lance’s ship, broken only by faint electrical humming. 

He’s no stranger to the quiet, but after seeing Pidge today, it feels less like an old friend and more like a worn-out relationship. 

Lance yawns again, closes Keith’s folder, and tucks it in his jacket, making a mental note to sneak it into Pidge’s bag tomorrow; to find a way out of this Voltron mess; to somehow secure the last eight thousand or so credits he needs to fix up the last pieces of his ship, and finally, finally start the voyage home. 

Even thinking about it puts the ache back in his temples. 

Lance leans his head back, sinking into worn, familiar leather. 

Back on Earth, he would’ve killed for this kind of view: thousands and thousands of stars swirling around him, painfully small against a great velvet ocean of nothingness. He probably would’ve killed just to have his own ship, too, his own space - a permanent scorch mark on the kitchen floor, a small crack that always reminds him of a lopsided grin on the windshield. 

A full tank of fuel, enough charm and fake I.Ds to sneak into any venue he pleased. 

And the entire galaxy beckoning in front of him. 

\-- 

“ _Lance!_ ” 

He snaps awake, heart pounding, elbow knocking painfully against the dull edge of his console. “What?” 

“Woah, calm down, Lance. It’s just me.” Pidge’s round glasses, the tufts of brown hair sticking up all over their head, waver familiarly into view, and Lance sits up, cradling his arm. “Right,” he mutters. “What time is it?” 

“No idea. Your clock’s stuck in Earth time.” They slide a meaningful eye at Lance, who pointedly looks away. “But I’m getting the weird feeling that we’re pretty close."

Lance rubs his eyes, follows their gaze through the windshield, and silently takes in a sphere of artificial neon light, strikingly luminescent against a sea of inky black, growing closer and larger by the second. 

“The Castle of Lions,” Pidge confirms, leaning forward over the back of Lance’s chair. “Never thought I’d see it in person.” 

Privately, Lance agrees. The Castle of Lions isn’t just a conglomerate of exclusive entertainment facilities - it’s an entire moon, technologically converted, complete with a personal atmosphere, a nearby, sun-like star, and approximately 9.8 meters (per second per second) of gravity. The weather, Lance has heard, is said to be lovely. 

The Castle of Lions is also surrounded on all sides by impermeable shields. There’s only one entrance/exit port, constantly guarded with state-of-the-art I.D and DNA scanners, and all activity is logged directly into a database hidden somewhere inside the Castle itself. No one gets in or out without a thorough identity check. 

Lance jumps to his feet abruptly, the last vestiges of sleep dissipating rapidly. “I’m...gonna go get dressed.” 

“Sure thing,” says Pidge, gaze still fixed on the Castle. “Hey, could you grab my bag, too? I’ll need it to get through security.” 

And...despite himself, Lance pauses in the doorway, interest rearing its head. _What kind of connections does Voltron have,_ he thinks, _to get us through the tightest security systems this side of the galaxy?_

You’d have to be some kind of Galra supporter. 

_Or one of the Galra themselves_. 

In his quarters, Pidge’s bag is tossed lazily on the floor (some things never change, Lance notes with mild amusement), and he kneels down to tuck the stolen folder carefully inside. Standing back up, though, is a whole other battle - sleeping in his pilot's chair last night was, in retrospect, a terrible idea. There's a dull ache in his neck, and Lance is seriously beginning to regret putting his problems on hold, because now he's facing them head-on. Lance eyes his closet, a tiny hole shelved out opposite his bunk, and sighs. What the hell does Voltron expect him to wear? 

Obviously, there’s no getting around Pidge; they’re going to look out of place no matter what. Lance doesn’t exactly have enough room on his ship to carry designer outfits in youth sizes. And furthermore...well, he’s still not convinced this job is the best idea. 

Lance kneels down, wincing as his knees dig into the hard, dirty floor, but he reaches underneath his bunk and pulls out a small, dusty lockbox. There are two keys: a lettered combination, and an old-fashioned key Lance clumsily sewed into the inside pocket of his jacket. He withdraws it now, types in the combination, and pops the lid. 

One thousand, six hundred and forty-one credits. 

The Altean artifact he’d lifted yesterday was supposed to throw in another three thousand credits - the best price he could fetch when selling it so soon. Even after that, Lance is nearly eight thousand short. And that’s with a lot of luck and duct tape. 

It didn’t used to be this way. Five, six years ago, Lance could’ve fixed his ship for maybe a third of the price he’s facing now. But economic inflation thanks to Galra mismanagement means even the smallest spare parts can cost double, triple what they’re actually worth. It’s no wonder so many people on the fringe planets - overworked, starving, and enslaved - despise the Galra empire. 

And it’s no wonder the rest of the galaxy doesn’t care. 

Lance sighs, tucking the box back in its hiding place. There’s no denying: he could use the money. And Voltron is definitely offering a helpful, albeit, shadowy hand. 

But the thing about Voltron - the thing that’s probably kept them alive for so long - is that you never know exactly what that hand is attached to. Or how many other hands are waiting for you to turn your back just so they can pull you in. 

“Hey.” 

Lance jumps up, spinning around - but it’s just Pidge, expression faintly wrinkled. “You’re not even dressed yet? We’re coming up on the port.” 

“Yeah, sorry.” Lance ignores his racing heart, grabs Pidge’s bag, and tosses it to them. “Dock without me. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.” 

“Aye aye, Captain.” When they disappear around the corner, Lance lets himself breathe again, nerves skittering frantically. _What’s wrong with me?_

_One internal crisis at a time,_ he scolds his brain sternly. _Get dressed and worry about the other shit later_. 

True to his word, though, Lance manages to rejoin Pidge in the hull after a couple minutes, resplendent in his favorite, fitted suit, complete with a deep blue tie. “You can be my rebellious kid sibling,” he tells Pidge when they give him a skeptical once over. “How’s your Spanish, _chiquitx?_ ” 

“Fuck off.” 

Lance grins, watching Pidge maneuver slowly through the port, past rows of impressive, towering cruisers with diamond inlays and gold-encrusted windows, before finally edging into an open space between two, sleek jets. Lance’s fingers itch just _looking_ at them. 

“Pidge,” he ventures hopefully, “did it ever occur to you that someone’s gonna know we’re not supposed to be here? I mean, I love my baby as much as the next guy, but...well, she’s not exactly _Vogue,_ y’know?” 

“Oh, loosen up,” Pidge dismisses. “This isn’t a museum; nobody’s handing out complementary tours.” 

“Maybe I like to make sure all my bases are covered when I’m about to break the law,” he retorts. 

“We’re already breaking the law.” 

“Way to make me feel better, Pidge.” 

They grab their bag from the floor, slinging one strap over their shoulder. “Come on, James Bond. For a grifter, you’re pretty uptight.” 

“What do _you_ know about being a grifter?” Everything Lance own - everything he’s scraped to earn in the last four years - is in this ship, from the duct-taped cables holding the engine together, from the lockbox underneath his bed. He’s not exactly jumping at the chance to leave it in the middle of a Galra docking port, conspicuous and unguarded. 

Then again, that’s one more reason to ditch Pidge and get back here as soon as possible. 

Lance keeps grumbling, though, sealing the act, as he follows Pidge down the narrow hallways to the entrance/exit hatch. But he can’t help eyeing the 3-D printer still sitting nearby - Altean dishware precariously balanced on its tray - even as Pidge is already climbing down the ladder. _I could do it right now,_ Lance thinks. _I could get to my buyer in four, maybe five hours, tops…_

He grits his teeth. 

Although it probably won’t do any good, he makes sure to close and lock the hatch carefully behind him. 

Despite its location, the rest of the dock is nothing special, the artificial light overhead dying his skin a dull, waxy yellow. Lance's footsteps echo sharply against concrete floor. A short stretch away, five doors - the five respective “Lions” - wait against the back wall, illuminated softly with multicolored light. 

Pidge heads towards the leftmost, glowing ocean blue. They rummage in their pocket before removing a small I.D card and flashing it against the sensor - and Lance feels his eyebrows raise to his hairline as the door clicks quietly unlocked. _That kind of clearance,_ he muses, _would really come in handy…_

A rush of perfumed air washes over him as Pidge presses a button below the scanner, and the door slides open, and Lance completely forgets what he was thinking. 

The Blue Lion yawns in front of him, glittering chandeliers suspended from the cavernous ceilings; plush ornate rugs sprawled across the marble floors; and massive, stained-glass windows obscuring the walls, depicting gorgeous scenes of gaudy luxury. _And this is just the lobby,_ Lance thinks dizzily, tipping his head back, back - well-acquainted with the rumors of the Blue Lion’s decadence, but to be honest, he figured they were just that, _rumors._

He knows the Blue Lion is a multi-hundred-story hotel, infamous for its labyrinthine hallways and suite-like rooms; its sleepless performers at all the bars on the main level, singing, dancing, or offering, well, _other_ means of entertainment; and, of course, its exclusive, attractive, and filthily rich clientele, sourced from all corners of the galaxy, and all sharing one, valuable thing: unyielding support of the Galra empire. 

He knows those clients swirl around him now, fingers or similar appendages clutching thin-stemmed glasses of a mauve, bubbly liquid; that the gold fever he felt earlier is intensified a thousand-fold, washing over him like a physical weight. 

And he knows that just one, successful pigeon would be more than enough to get him - 

“ _Ow!_ ” 

Lance jerks reluctantly back to reality, Pidge’s elbow digging into his side. “What now?” he demands through gritted teeth, whirling. 

“I have to take a call,” Pidge tells him. “Here’s your room key. Stop at the bar if you want, but make sure you’re there by…” They consult a watch briefly. “Well, thirty minutes. Our mastermind’s here somewhere, but I think she’s a little tied up right now.” 

Lance honestly stopped listening after _I have to take a call._ Finally, after a string of bad luck and stupid coincidences, the universe is giving him a well-deserved break. “Sure thing,” Lance replies automatically, taking the card. “See you later.” He watches Pidge disappear into the crowd, phone raised to their ear - as loyal and trustworthy and painfully naive as Lance remembers. He can’t help grinning fondly. 

At least, until he knows for sure Pidge is gone, swallowed between glittery cocktail dresses and waiters balancing tall platters of drinks and appetizers. _Okay,_ Lance thinks, cracking his neck. _Showtime_. 

Obviously, there’s some kind of event going on, because the lobby is hot and crowded, buzzing with conversation and vicious laughter. If Lance had to guess, he’d say a charity auction, because rich people like to do that sort of thing. and pretend they’re actually helping people instead of boosting their own egos. 

_Focus_. 

Hitting multiple targets isn’t going to work - too risky, even in a large crowd. Lance plucks a glass from one of the moving platters, dangling it casually between his fingers as he edges towards a cluster of couches near a particularly elaborate stained-glass creation. Two humans of indeterminate gender, both dressed in suits, are sitting nearby, chatting in low voices, but they turn slowly away as Lance approaches, conversation falling flat. 

Lance smiles diplomatically. 

He leans against the edge of the couch, sipping his drink, which tastes remarkably like a fruity champagne. Come to think of it, there are quite a few Earthlike qualities here, Lance observes. A terran charity, then? Or maybe something more - 

Oh. 

_Oh._

A tall, gorgeous woman is striding through the crowd, drink in hand, lipsticked mouth moving politely as she winds in and out of conversation. A shimmery gown clings to the well-defined muscles of her arms and legs, showy while still dancing on the “right” side of conventional, and Lance rakes his gaze slowly over the small, golden clutch between her manicured nails; the elaborate necklace glittering around her throat; and the diamonds - shit, _real_ diamonds - woven into long strands of pitch-black hair. 

Lance swallows. _Hard_. 

This woman could get him to the fucking _Orpheus_ System. 

Lance downs the last of his drink, grabs a new glass without looking, and dives into the crowd. Exotic, potted plants lean against tall marble columns, and small tables are set up every few feet, perfect for sampling appetizers, but the woman maneuvers them all gracefully, obviously headed somewhere deliberate. Lance hangs back a couple feet, eyeing her dress, her shoes; even her build, tall and sturdy, like a runner or a swimmer. You don’t see a lot of rich people like that, most preferring eclairs to exercise. 

In his head, he throws together a basic character bio, and a list of handy observations he started from the moment he entered the Blue Lion. Then he straightens his suit jacket, fixes his tie, and - 

Uh. 

Lance’s brain switches off of professional-grifter-mode to chant unhelpfully: _fuck fuck fuck fuck -_

Catching another thief during a job is like seeing yourself in a mirror. For one, it’s almost unmistakable: the way they stand, look around, even breathe, too used to narrow air vents and claustrophobic vaults. Suddenly Lance is hypersensitive, painfully attuned to how much space he’s taking up; how cheap his tux looks under a microscope; how the numbers on his fake I.D, the one still in his bag after his museum heist, are a little smudged. 

Lance forces himself to calm down. 

The thief - waiter, actually, although shoddy enough that Lance is pretty sure he’s not a grifter, or at least not a good one - is standing next to one of those stupid potted plants. His eyes _were_ locked on the pigeon, the one Lance had been so frustratingly close to plucking...but obviously he got a telltale shiver down his neck, or a chill down his spine, or _whatever_ , because his head turns, dull blue eyes probing through the thickly perfumed air, seeking out whoever’s caught him. 

With an effort, Lance pulls his own gaze away. He doesn’t recognize this particular face, but there are thousands of pawns for the black market. _Sorry, man_ , Lance thinks, not feeling particularly sorry. _But I got here first._

He fixes his tie again, takes a deep breath, and walks right up to the mark, hand already extended. 

The woman looks at him. 

“Alex Castillo,” says Lance, charm dripping from his smile all over the marble floor. “You don’t have to pretend like you’ve heard of me; I’m here on a student visa.” 

Head tilted politely: “Oh?” 

“It’s a textile engineering degree,” Lance continues. “Minor, that is. Actually, I couldn’t help but notice your dress. It’s an Altean design, isn’t it?” 

The woman doesn’t quite smile at him, but she does deign to shake his hand, and that, Lance believes, is a win. “You have quite an eye, Mr. Castillo.” 

“Ah, I appreciate the compliment, but such a design would undoubtedly stand out in a crowd like this.” 

“I didn’t realize.” 

“Of course not.” Lance doesn’t quite smile back, but he does raise one, well-meaning eyebrow. “I mentioned I’m minoring in textile engineering, but my major is a political science degree. And my studies so far tell me that a high-ranking person like yourself is fully aware of the symbolism attributed to her clothes.” Lance watches the woman’s expression, from a minute touch of surprise to a more-than-polite mask of intrigue. _Gotcha._

She props one, slender finger against her jawline. “Political science, you say.” 

“Mmmhmm.” 

“In that case, Mr. Castillo, perhaps I have an opportunity for you. There’s an internship on the planet where I serve as an ambassador, and - ” 

“Excuse me.” 

Lance is surprised he doesn’t tear out his hair in frustration. 

The waiter is back, platter in hand, less-than-professional smile plastered across his face. _An amateur,_ Lance grouses mentally, fuming. _Idiot, get out of here and let me -_

“I don’t mean to eavesdrop,” the waiter says, “but can I see your visa, Mr. Castillo?” 

Lance barely avoids sneering. “I left it in my room.” 

“I find that somewhat hard to believe.” 

“May I inquire as to what this is about?” the woman says, and her tone is a blatant warning bell to Lance’s well-trained ears, but he can’t give up, not yet, not when he was so _close -_

“Sure,” says the waiter. “Mr. Castillo here is just jeopardizing his status as an international student. And - ” now he’s talking to Lance directly - “You dropped your keys, by the way.” 

“What? No I - ” 

The waiter reaches into his pocket, removing a very familiar ring of keys, and a less-familiar, but still noticeable, room card. 

_Fuck_. 

So he’s not a bad grifter - he’s a genuine fucking _rogue_. Lance hates himself briefly for not noticing this. 

“I’m sorry,” he says out loud, turning fully to face the waiter and his stupid, limp brown hair - yeah, okay, _definitely_ not a grifter. “Are you a waiter, a security guard, or straight up law enforcement?” 

“Try a concerned civilian.” 

“Ah, so none of the above. I’ll take my keys back, thanks.” Lance extends his hand, but the waiter merely looks at him, offers an infuriatingly smug grin, and raises both sets of keys to eye level. “So, you’re a rich collegiate flying a junkyard shuttle three years past its expiration date. But you’ve also got a hotel suite on the third-highest floor. What’s the truth, Mr. _Castillo?_ ” 

Lance’s skin is beginning to prickle underneath his suit. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Huh. _Weird._ ‘Cause I thought - “ 

“And how does some waiter figure out what ship I’m flying _just_ by looking at the keyring, anyway?”

The waiter in question flinches, eyes widening imperceptibly--but just enough to reveal a thin stripe of deep purple on the edges of dull-blue irises. “That’s none of _your_ business.” 

“What, so you can interrogate _me_ \- ” 

“I’m not - ” 

“ - Mr. Colored Contacts, I don’t think you - “ 

“Enough!” 

A couple heads turn, curious, but suddenly there’s a cool hand on the back of Lance’s neck, fingers pressing hard against flushed skin. A cloud of rose-scented perfume fills his chest. 

“ _Quiet,_ ” hisses in a voice in Lance’s ear, silky-soft with danger. “And stand up straight. As soon as I release you, walk towards the elevator on your left. Don’t turn around.” 

Lance counts himself lucky enough that it’s not a Galran security guard’s hand on his neck. He nods, and the pressure vanishes. 

There’s someone else in his peripheral vision, though, walking towards the same elevator. Lance doesn’t dare turn his head until the noise of the lobby disappears, muffled by four, cool walls, and a faint trickle of music overhead. 

Then he groans. 

The fucking _waiter_. 

“Look, I’m not exactly pumped to see you, too,” the waiter spits. He raises a hand, using two fingers to pull his eyelids wide, and deftly pops out his contact lenses. “Guess there’s no point in leaving them in. Hey, way to ruin my night, by the way.” 

Lance frowns. “Speaking of which - ” 

For the second time, he’s interrupted. 

The women from earlier, his pigeon, strides into the elevator, letting the doors close behind her. She selects a button towards the top of the panel and watches expressionlessly as the floor drops out from underneath them, old-fashioned gears working soundlessly. 

“I ask for one grifter,” the woman says at last, “and one thief, and what happens? They both try to rob me.” 

Lance can't say he's surprised, but his heart drops through the spotless glass regardless. _That means..._

“My name is Allura,” the woman says, removing her brown wig with a delicate flick of her wrist. “Since both of you are here, I assume you’re taking the job, which means I am both your benefactor and mastermind.” 

_One grifter..._

“Nevertheless,” Allura continues flatly. “I admit I had wanted to test you, and you both passed with flying colors. Congratulations, I suppose. Welcome to the team.” 

_And one thief_. 

“I don't care," Lance snaps, slapping the L button with the back of his hand. "I'm not doing this, I want out, you can't just - “ 

He's too late, though; the waiter laughs and rolls his eyes, deep, unforgettably violet. “Oh, yeah. I remember you, grifter.” Like Allura, he raises a hand, pulling aside his own wig. Black hair springs free, fluffy with static and hairspray. 

The ache in Lance’s temple starts throbbing again - never a good sign.

“You’re the one,” Keith Kogane states vindictively, discarding his wig at Lance’s feet, “that got Shiro and me kicked out of the fucking Garrison in the first place.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, fun fact!! so even though a lot of foreign languages are super gendered, activists groups are trying to develop new word endings that can be gender neutral for people who identify as nonbinary! (like me!!) so in spanish, there are now three possible endings to every gendered word: the traditional male "o", the female "a", and the new gender netural "x". which is where Lance's pet name for Pidge, chiquitx, comes from!!! 
> 
> aka i love nonbinary pidge so fuckin much you guys don't even know. 
> 
> also i wrote this chapter a lot faster than i was expecting so uh. beware the grammar! but seriously all the comments and stuff really spurred me on, thank you guys so much :)) 
> 
> (also i made a playlist for this fic bc i'm Like That so if you guys want i'll probably post it with the next chapter.) 
> 
> and last thing (i promise): i'm not super active on tumblr but find me @naakahara if you want to talk abt vld, writing, or anything in between!!!


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as the elevator doors slide open, Keith stalks out, footsteps muffled but somehow still vicious against thick carpet as he disappears down the hall. 

Lance braces a hand against his sternum, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. 

The crowded air reeks of roses. 

“I had hoped,” Allura observes dryly, watching the doors _hiss_ shut, “your history together would be inconsequential at best.” She slides a cool glance across the cramped space; Lance can feel it prickling uncomfortably against his skin. “Obviously, I was mistaken.” 

Lance closes his eyes and leans against the elevator wall. “Obviously.” 

“Did you mean it?” 

“Mean what?” 

“What you said earlier.” When the elevator grinds to a soundless halt, cables wavering unsteadily above them, Lance can’t quite say he’s surprised. “Maybe,” he admits. 

“So far,” notes Allura, “you’ve met just two of the four members of my team, disregarding yourself, yet you’ve already managed to lose one and severely piss off the other. Even for a grifter, that’s an impressive accomplishment.” 

“I didn’t - “ Frustrated, Lance opens his eyes again, although there’s not much of a difference: the elevator’s emergency lights have kicked in, surrounding Allura with an devilish corona of amber light. “Fine. I made a mess of your plan. Let me leave, and I’ll pay as much in damages as you want.” 

“I wish it were that easy, Lance.” 

Allura steps forward, closing the already small space between them. Sharp eyes rake across Lance’s body, lingering on the frayed cuff of his sleeves; the creased collar of his shirt. Keith’s glare was rattling enough, but this feels more like an X-ray, an evaluation Lance forgot to study for. The scent of roses thickens, sickly-sweet. 

“My superiors voiced their concerns when I proposed this job,” says Allura quietly, extending a delicate hand and lifting his chin with one elaborately ringed finger. “They feared collaboration with known criminals might lead to disaster, especially if those criminals were to operate unleashed. It’s true, Lance, that you do not wear a collar around your neck.” 

Her wrist turns imperceptibly, a sharp nail digging into the delicate skin at his jaw. “At least, no _visible_ one.” 

The past four years have taught Lance that he should _not_ , under any circumstances, find this situation hot. 

His back hits the elevator wall. 

“If you try to leave,” Allura whispers, breath cool against his cheek, “you will only make it as far as the lobby before Galran security overtakes you. Abandoning the safety of my team means forfeiting any and all protection I can provide. Without my help, you will become Lance McClain, Garrison dropout and infamous grifter, in the middle of the Blue Lion’s lobby. And every Galra on this moon will know it.” 

The pressure against his jaw disappears. Allura draws back just enough to dangle an I.D card in front of his nose, flyway strands of her white hair smoldering lowly, catching Lance’s eye despite himself. “But if you stay,” Allura murmurs, “I promise I can make it worth your while.” 

Lance isn’t stupid - he’s played enough people to know when he’s getting strung up. But he catches the name on that I.D, a seemingly inconsequential jumble of consonants and vowels and he knows instantly just how much it’s worth. 

_And on top of a ten thousand credit payout..._

He fights to keep his expression neutral. “Am I really worth that much to you?” 

Without warning, a dangerous smile splits across Allura’s face, perfect white teeth bared. “Oh, Lance,” she chides, looking positively _demonic_. “Your experience as a grifter should answer that question without my help.” 

_Great._

The solar panels above them spark suddenly, a half-second warning, before the elevator chokes and grumbles and continues trekking reluctantly downwards. Lance stumbles; braces a hand against the wall to catch himself. 

But even with the lights restored, cheerfully liquid-gold, Allura still seems shadowed, like there are parts of her not quite in focus. She crosses to the other side of the elevator, and Lance releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “So what will it be, _sharpshooter?_ ” 

He just wishes he had more of a choice. 

“I can’t work with him,” he says at last, meeting Allura’s expressionless gaze. “And I don’t think he’s particularly interested in working with me, either.” 

Allura’s mouth curves faintly upwards, but thankfully, the full piranha-ness from earlier doesn’t make a reappearance. “Well, that’s something both of you are going to have to get over, isn’t it?” 

“You don’t understand. Keith and I - “ 

“Twelve hours.” 

Lance blinks. The elevator stops - ground floor - but Allura keeps the doors closed, shooting them back up again. “What?”

“Twelve hours,” Allura repeats. “I assume Pidge told you twenty-four. They were not mistaken in doing so, as I presented my original plan with a timeframe of one Earth-day. However, I chose to account for both travel and briefing time. The actual job will be completed in a little less than twelve hours, beginning some twenty or thirty minutes from now. I imagine the rest of the team will be a bit much to wrangle into shape.” 

“Does Keith know?” 

“If he didn’t before, he does now.” 

Lance keeps his eyes on the floor numbers, ticking higher and higher as they spiral into the sky. “Twelve hours,” he says carefully, “and I never see him again?” 

“If that’s what you want.” 

At long last, the elevator _dings_ cheerfully, doors splitting to reveal to reveal a dim, low-ceilinged corridor. Doors line elaborately painted walls - lives tucked away in decadent luxury, so secure in their money and faith they couldn’t possibly guess what’s about to happen here tonight. 

Allura clears her throat, extending a gracious arm. “Shall we go?” 

Lance doesn't move, though, only just noticing the silvery scars criss-crossing the underside of Allura's forearm. In retrospect, she'd probably held herself, until now, with deliberate poise, always keeping her arm turned inwards. But a little makeup could've covered them just as easily. 

The question burns on his tongue, but he ran out of luck five questions ago. Allura's eyes gleam, a pointed reminder, and Lance takes a deep breath, forcing himself to move forward even when every nerve in his body is screaming at him to run. To be fair, it's only a natural habit. He's has been running for a long, long time.

But he always knew it'd catch up to him eventually.

“You know, I’m getting kind of tired,” Lance says to Allura at last, “of you pretending like I have a choice.” 

_Translation: Congratulations, you just won a bona-fide grifter._

“Ah, my apologies," Allura responds smoothly, "but I assumed you’d be used to your back against a wall.” 

No translation needed.

The double meaning of her words isn’t lost on him, though, and instead of taking her battle-scarred arm, Lance steps aside, hip knocking accidentally against the doorway. “After you, Princess.” 

The glittery train of Allura’s gown drags across padded ornate carpet as she leads him down the hall. Even their collective footsteps are nicely muffled, and the walls seem dense, no conversation or distant laughter filtering through. Lance, desperate to take his mind off his current predicament, tries to picture it: vast, luxurious suites, shrouded in purple, long limbs sprawled across feathery quilts - 

Allura stops, withdrawing a small keycard from the clutch he'd been eyeing earlier. _Room 19252_. She knocks twice, inserts the key, and cracks the door. “Shiro?” 

Lance’s heart jumps without warning. 

_Takashi Shirogane, exploration pilot, ATLAS captain at the Garrison, and -_

A tired voice, nothing like Lance remembers from his very, very brief encounters with Shiro, crawls underneath the door: “What _now,_ Allura?” 

Allura doesn’t respond, instead pushing the door open and beckoning Lance inside. The long hallway is gloomy and shadowed, a vague kitchen off to one side; a master bedroom on the other, distinct only thanks to an oversized mattress. _Wonder who’s sleeping there,_ Lance thinks as the main room opens up in front of him, all swooping ceilings and floor-ceiling windows choked with thick curtains; a large television screen stretched across one wall, some kind of dramatic romance film flickering on mute. Armchairs and futons cluster together, stocked with pillows. For a temporary prison - or a dog cage, depending on how you look at it - it's actually pretty cozy.

“Shiro,” Allura starts, walking right up to a shadowed figure sprawled across one of the futons, “I thought I told you to keep an eye on Keith?” 

“He’s in his room,” the figure - Shiro - responds flatly. “Sulking.” 

“Ah, lovely to see nothing’s changed, then.” Allura scoops up the remote and kills the holoscreen picture, turning back to Shiro with her hands on her hips. “And Pidge?” 

“In their room.” Shiro flicks his gaze reluctantly upwards, raking over Lance. “I’m not a babysitter, Allura.” 

“No, of course not; you’re a guard dog. Shiro, this our resident grifter, Lance. Lance, this is - “ 

“I know,” Lance interrupts quickly. “We were at the Garrison together.” It’s difficult to discern in the dim light, but Lance is watching closely, and he’s pretty sure Shiro’s eyebrows - both of them - lift right up to his hairline. 

Lance’s stomach clenches. “Good to see you again,” he adds pointedly, dumping salt in the wound. “Captain.” 

Shiro makes a noncommittal noise and turns back to the blank T.V. Allura rolls her eyes. “Come on, Lance, I’ll show you your room.” 

Lance desperately wants to stay, but he follows her down another dark hallway. In one of the smaller (but still very large) bedrooms, he dumps his duffel bag onto the bedspread, which is neatly folded over, and thankfully lacking the coffee, makeup, and hair-dye stains he’s lately become accustomed to. “Keep your curtains closed,” Allura advises, leaning against his doorframe. “Avoid touching anything you don’t absolutely need to use.” There’s a large vanity and mirror next to Lance’s bed, begging to be used. He inhales deeply, lungs filled with linen-scented hotel air. 

“That door,” adds Allura, tilting her head, “leads to a conjoining bathroom between this room and the next.” 

“How long do I have?” 

“Oh, as long as it takes to round up the other two, I suppose.” 

Lance frowns, turning. “Two?” 

“The last member of our team,” Allura clarifies, already beginning to disappear back down the hall, but she hooks a hand around the frame, eyeing Lance, “is a little bit - how you say - _tied up_ at the moment.” 

“I see.” 

Actually, he thinks he’s beginning to, the pieces slotting together with a familiar spark of electricity. Grifter or not, it’s not a particularly difficult pattern. If he didn’t know who the last member of the team was… 

Allura nods at him before closing the door softly, and for the first time since last night - or, really, two nights ago, before Pidge fell back into his life with a splash of reheated coffee and oversized frames - Lance finds himself alone. 

He breathes out. 

There are probably hidden cameras, somewhere. 

Lance goes back to his duffel and pulls out a change of clothes. He eyes the door to the bathroom longingly - recycled shower water doesn’t exactly cut it, and the hotel he’d been staying at for the museum heist wasn’t much to boast about, either - but the sky, or what little he can see of it through the curtains, is already pitch-black, and Lance sighs and unbuttons his dress shirt. Allura’s voice drifts down the hallway, edged with frustration. 

A blue baseball tee, a pair of washed-out jeans, and some extra-strength makeup wipes later, Lance scrutinizes himself in the full-size mirror. His hair is still matted with gel, purple shadows carved deep underneath red-rimmed eyes. _No wonder Keith didn’t recognize me at first._

Then again, Lance didn’t exactly recognize him either. 

He checks his watch, sighs again, and heads out to the main room. The curtains are still drawn - a lingering habit, apparently - but warm lamplight pools across the floor, silhouetting three silent figures, spread strategically throughout the room in armchairs all facing one long glass table. 

Lance strides through the semi-circle of furniture, settling on one side of the previously-occupied, now-vacant futon. “How’s it going, Pidge?” 

Pidge’s grin stretches, catlike; they haven’t even changed their clothes. “Thought you jumped ship,” they comment, leaning back enough to throw a pointed, sideways glance. “Did Allura change your mind?” 

“No, but the direct threat on my life did.” 

“Thought you’d be used to that kind of thing.” 

“You know, Pidge, you’re not the first person who’s said that.” Lance thinks he hears another voice - not Pidge’s - respond, deliberately muffled, and he frowns. The tension in the room kicks up a notch. 

The T.V screen opposite Lance flickers suddenly to life, dramatic images from earlier replaced by a blank webpage. 

“Paladins,” Allura greets warmly, entering the room. Her white hair flows uninhibited, diamonds absent, and Lance makes a mental note to check her room later. The glittery evening gown has also vanished in lieu of a more sensible black jumpsuit. “So sorry to keep you waiting.” 

“Paladins?” echoes Shiro doubtfully, and Allura shrugs. “Why not? For twelve hours, you are in Voltron’s employment, whether or not you choose to stay that way.” 

Pidge snorts. “Why _not?_ ” 

“We’re criminals,” Lance adds helpfully, “not D&D characters.” 

“You _were_ criminals,” Allura corrects, unfazed. She tosses a handful of plastic I.D cards onto the table, letting them scatter loudly across its glass top. “As I said, you are in Voltron’s employment now.” 

Pidge - closest to the table - leans forward first, plucking the topmost card. Lance watches them scrutinize, pinpoint eyes widening slowly underneath clear glass frames as some kind of realization hits. “Who made these?”

“A friend.” 

“Let me see,” says Lance, sticking out a hand, and Pidge hands over the card reluctantly, fingers lingering on its serrated edge. Lance stares into his own face, a perfectly rendered picture he never remembers taking. “Holy _shit_.” 

A lot of people outside the black market underestimate just how difficult it is to forge intergalactic I.D cards. Each system has its own, and some individual civilizations have also developed custom designs, thanks to a variety of cultural, geological, or anthropological reasons. You can request passports to traverse galactic boundaries, but the security is a nightmare: DNA scans, a database full of prints and retina scans, paperwork proving ethnicity, date and location of birth, current employment, etc. It’s almost easier to keep a running deck of I.Ds for each system you travel to. 

Two years ago, Lance had been close to a forger. The kind of close that led to lips catching on the rim of delicate martini glasses, and single-room bookings at the hotels they frequented. 

The I.Ds were immaculate. 

He can’t think about this right now. 

“These are not the only roles you will play,” warns Allura, picking up the T.V remote as she steps to the center of the room. “I’m sure all of you expect to operate as you usually do: individualized, functioning in a single profession. But Voltron does not agree with that perspective, and neither do I. From now until the sun rises tomorrow morning, we are a unified team, and we all act as such.” 

Lance pulls himself back together. “You mean we’re gonna hold hands and dance around the campfire?” 

“This isn’t right.” 

“Yeah, no shit, genius - “ 

“Lance, shut up,” Keith snaps, sitting forward. He’s changed out of that stupid waiter costume, but his hair is still fluffy with cheap hairspray. _Who the fuck wears gloves indoors?_ Lance wonders. “My name is on this.” 

He flips one of the I.D cards, the small picture and accompanying black text facing Allura. “This is _my_ information.” 

“That’s kind of how an I.D works,” Lance snarks. 

“Lance,” Pidge starts, halfway patient, but Keith is quicker, dark eyes shooting poison-laced daggers with terrifying accuracy. “Not a fucking black market I.D, dumbass.” 

“Keith,” warns Shiro, starting to rise. 

Lance smirks. “Sensitive info?” 

“You _wish_ \- “ 

“Both of you!” barks Allura, facade dropping in a split-second. Her voice rings once; twice, a silent dare. Lance gauges his chances carefully. “Sit _down_.” 

Yeah, he sits. 

He found out what he wanted to know, after all. 

Allura takes a deep breath, turning to a still-fuming Keith. “It is your information,” she says calmly, “with your name, because that is one of the parts you must play.” 

“Yeah, and get arrested?” 

“Yes.” 

Keith blinks. 

Lance heartily enjoys the split-second of silence before: 

“ _What?_ ” 

“If you had let me explain earlier,” Allura adds pointedly, “you would not be so confused.”

From the peripheral of his vision, Lance notices, for the second time, Shiro beginning to stand. “Keith - “ 

“It doesn’t,” Allura snaps. “I am more than capable of handling this job, Shiro, and whatever complications it may provide.” 

_Keith is Pidge’s mark,_ Lance thinks suddenly, turning his head just enough to catch Pidge’s expression, deliberately smoothed over. _Whatever Shiro is talking about, they know._

_So how does Shiro know?_

All eyes swivel, whether or not they mean to, landing on Shiro. 

“Sit down,” Allura orders quietly, and he does, expressionless. “Thank you.” 

Keith tosses his I.D onto the table, watching it slide face-down. “Now,” says Allura, “are there any other heartfelt confessions, or may I continue?” 

Footsteps pad down the hallway outside their suite, heavy with drink. 

“I will start, as is only natural, at the beginning,” Allura says. “The Castle of Lions is the largest tourist trap in Galra space, generating both revenue and loyalty. In recent times, it has become a symbol of the luxury an intergalactic Galran Empire could offer. 

“Voltron recognizes face and propaganda as two of the most important components generated by any successful dictatorship. Some time ago, I suggested we address this threat directly, but it is only recently I was given the prerogative to create a team and take down the Castle of Lions personally.” 

“So you hired criminals,” Lance says. 

Allura ignores him. “Most of you know that this job has only a twelve hour timeframe. When the sun rises tomorrow morning, your ties to Voltron, and to me, will be severed. That said, here is our objective.” Allura steps aside just enough to reveal a newspaper column she’s pulled up on the T.V screen. 

A column and a photograph. 

A knot begins to form in Lance’s stomach. 

“King Zarkon’s son is crown prince to the Galran Empire,” Allura explains calmly. “He is also the Castle’s most dedicated investor, its caretaker, and, for all propaganda purposes, its mascot.” 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

“You don’t mean - “ 

_How the hell are we supposed to pull this off?_

Pale lilac eyes leer at them from the screen, frozen in time. 

“Yes,” Allura says. “Your job tonight is to kidnap and interrogate the son of Zarkon, heir to the Galran throne, Prince Lotor himself.” 

Keith chokes audibly on the end of his sentence. 

Lance closes his eyes. 

And the whole room just fucking explodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so uh sorry this one is really short.....but i decided to split it into two parts for ~dramatic tension~ and all that so i'll do my best to get the next part posted asap!! 
> 
> also i'm really bad at being Personal(tm) but all your comments are super sweet and thoughtful and they make my brain go ahhhhhhh!!!!~~ so thank you so much, and as always thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

“There’s no way,” Pidge argues for the fifth or maybe the fiftieth time. “There’s _no_ way. It just can’t be done.” 

Allura opens her mouth to respond, and that’s when Shiro jumps in, his argument significantly more effective likely because, unlike Pidge, he’s over six foot and fairly muscular. Their voices ring against the tiered ceiling, clamoring on top of each other. 

Lance puts a hand to his forehead. 

There are only so many people that can argue with Allura at one time, but not for lack of trying. Lance checks his watch: three hours to midnight. If Allura wants to stay on the schedule she inevitably has, this squabble needs to end. Quickly. 

He guesses neither Pidge nor Shiro were “persuaded” (blackmailed) in the same way he was earlier. Of course Lance thinks this is a terrible idea - the worst, actually. Every nerve in his body wants to bolt, positive he can outrun whatever bloodthirsty Galran security awaits him in the main lobby. 

But the odds are like this: 

If Lance runs (and actually manages to escape), he is guaranteed another two years floating through space in a dying piece of junk, perpetually cold, perpetually tired. He’ll take odd jobs and hopefully avoid arrest until he can scrape together enough money for a hand-me-down part and a fair amount of duct tape and well-meant blessings. 

Plus, Voltron will want his head on the basis of some stupid honor code all galatic rebels seem to have. 

But if he stays (and manages to survive), he’ll be rewarded with a fat check and an I.D guaranteed to make sure he’ll never have to rob a museum again. 

What kind of choice is there? 

Lance leans back against the couch cushions, surprised to notice, from the corner of his eye, Keith still sitting cross-legged in his own armchair. 

“Allura’s got dirt on you, too?” he says without thinking, actually kind of curious. 

At the front of the room, Pidge begins swearing - never a good sign. 

Keith sideyes him suspiciously. “Maybe.” 

“What kind?” 

“The kind that’s none of your fucking business.” 

_Cool_. “Okay, good talk,” Lance says, sitting up again. “I’m gonna go raid the kitchen, you want anything?” 

He honestly doesn’t know why he offers. Desperate to get away from the inevitable shouting match, maybe. And maybe that’s why, when Keith turns around enough to search Lance’s face, he finds nothing to dissuade him from admitting, albeit reluctantly, “Sure.” 

“Really?” Lance blurts out. Then, after Keith’s expression darkens significantly: “Whatever, man.” 

Keith stands up, and they sidestep an occupied Allura, a fiery Pidge, and a resolutely stubborn Shiro, all in each other’s faces as best they can. Lance had noticed the kitchen earlier, back down the entryway where he’d come in. 

The lights activate automatically when they walk through the doorway, glowing, white-hot strips plastered to the ceiling. Lance opens the fridge and squats down, peering through a forest of unidentifiable bottles. “The hell’s this?” 

“Galran alcohol,” Keith answers, already a smug note in his voice like _you don’t know that?_ “It’s hangover-free, stronger than vodka, and tastes a hell of a lot better.” 

“Okay, not touching that.” 

“What, you don’t want to relive the good old Garrison days?” 

Lance’s eyes narrow, even though he’s still facing the fridge contents. “Actually, I figured my teammates would be a little upset if their grifter got drunk before a mission.” 

“Oh, how thoughtful.” 

He is _really_ beginning to regret bringing Keith along - and it’s been, what, all of two minutes? Lance lets the fridge door swing shut and gets to his feet, pivoting to face a relentlessly self-satisfied smirk. “Seriously, man, what is your deal?” 

“Not surprised you don’t remember.” Keith pulls a family-sized bag of chips from behind his back and offers it, eyebrows raised innocently. “Want some?” 

“Actually, I want you to tell me what the fuck your problem is.” 

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Keith shrugs and retreats to the countertop, leaning against it and poking through the bag. 

Lance leans against the fridge. “You said I got you and Shiro kicked out of the Garrison.” 

“Did I?” 

“You’re a shitty liar, you know that?” 

“If you really want to know,” Keith retorts, “ask Shiro. “

“Yeah, I would, except I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even recognize me.” 

“Ouch.” 

This whole lofty air, the high horse and high ground and cat got the fucking canary - all of it is really fucking starting to get on Lance’s nerves. He weighs two highly entertaining options: finally, _finally_ punching Keith, or just grabbing the chips (which he does kind of want) and leaving. 

But, he grudgingly admits, they’ll still be working together for the next twelve hours, like it or not. 

Lance never received formal training as a grifter - the acting and makeup and non-verbal signal classes of all those grand academies, clustered together in the Athena system. But he did spend four years convincing expensive secrets from nosy aristocrats, and he knows this is probably the best chance he’ll get, hidden away like siblings in the kitchen while the adults fight it out, to get the jump on Keith. 

“Whatever Allura has over you,” says Lance at last, folding his arms casually, “it’s about your parents, right?” 

Keith is still working his way through the chips. “What makes you say that?” 

“Well, you brought up the Garrison days. Everyone knows you lived with Shiro ‘cause your parents went AWOL.” _Which is why everyone thought you were sleeping your way to a higher grade,_ Lance resists adding because, technically, it probably wasn’t true. Keith didn’t need extra help securing his spot at the top of the class. 

“Plus, all IDs have your genetic information,” Lance muses. “You freaked out when Allura had one with your name on it. Must be something good, right? Did you find out before or after you left Earth?”

Keith tries to act nonchalant when he sets his snack aside, but Lance can see right fucking through him, which is admittedly a refreshing development. 

“I remember you,” he says, “from the Garrison. Acting like you were so much better than everyone else. It’s probably my fucking luck that you’re the heir to some intergalactic throne, or whatever.”

“Shut up.” 

“Sorry, am I supposed to curtsey? Or, no, bet I fucked this up already ‘cause I’m not even allowed to talk until you grant me the fucking privilage to - “ 

“Shut _up,_ Lance - “ 

Fuck, fuck, he’s in way over his head, old anger bursting through his chest like a dam, some nasty Molotov cocktail of - Lance doesn’t even know what, rage, jealousy? God, that’d be pathetic, but all the same, it’s begging to explode, one more stupid quip, one more push he’s never been able to resist - 

Lance cocks his head and meets Keith’s smoldering gaze. “So is Shiro just your bodyguard, or is he your concubine, too?” 

Before he can _blink,_ there’s an elbow against his throat and a cold hard surface digging into his back, and the achingly familiar point of a blade wedged somewhere in Lance’s stomach. 

And a pair of blazing violet eyes locked onto him like a hunter finally catching its prey. 

“Don’t you _dare,_ ” Keith hisses, deadly, deceptively soft, “talk about him like that again.” 

Lance’s nerves are screaming, yelling at him to run. The blade pushes in, catching skin underneath his T-shirt. 

He swallows. “Get off me.” 

Keith's mouth works into a terrible, snarling grin, inches away from Lance’s face. “Ask nicely.” 

“No way in - “ 

_Pain,_ white-hot, raging furiously through his body. Lance fights to keep his expression empty, but Keith’s arm is still pressing hard into his neck, awful vindictive smile still plastered across his face, and fuck, he’s going to do it, he’s going to - 

The doorbell rings. 

_What?_

Keith narrows his eyes, head tilting. “Was that you?” 

“Does it look like me, dumbass?” 

“Jesus Christ, do you _ever_ take things seriously?” 

Lance’s well-deserved retort is on the tip of his tongue when the doorbell rings again, louder. Keith swears, backing away. His knife disappears before Lance can really see it, probably faintly stained with his own - 

“Ah, shit,” says Keith, glancing down. 

For a moment, a wave of terror seizes Lance, immediately followed by a surge of common sense and repulsion. He follows Keith’s gaze to where it stops - obviously, where else would it be going? - on his stomach. “Man, you totally owe me a new shirt.” 

“Oh, get over it.” For the third time, the doorbell rings, and Lance rolls his eyes, straightening the now crimson and white fabric. He winces as the fibres brush across split skin. “Hope it’s not room service.” 

Lance backs into the hallway again, and by some unspoken agreement, Keith follows. Adrenaline is still flooding through his body, a memory of piercing violet eyes and a snarling mouth he shoves into the back of his mind for now. He flips on the lamp next to the front door, pushes Keith aside, and opens it, squinting into the dim hallway outside. 

_Ah, fuck_. 

Was the universe planning on giving him a break? Like, ever?

 _“Lance?”_

He really should’ve stayed in the kitchen - Keith and dagger and all. 

Lance forces a smile, stepping back enough to take in the man standing, ridiculously familiar, in the doorway of some deep-space luxury suite, familiar bandanna and smile lines and all. “How’re you doing, Hunk?” 

Hunk - fellow Garrison dropout, forger, driver, mechanic, an amazing chef, and the third and final member of Lance’s little group he had believed, four years ago, would last forever. 

“You _knew?_ ” Keith mutters, almost imperceptibly, in Lance’s ear, before his footsteps disappear unnoticed back down the hallway. 

“What happened?” asks Hunk quietly, warm brown eyes scanning Lance’s body - probably malnourished, in desperate need of sunlight - with the same attentive care as when he used to pick Lance up from bars and clubs, as if a gentle stare could work all the knots out of Lance’s muscles. 

“I left the Garrison,” Lance says with a shrug. “Had to find work somewhere, I guess. What about you?” 

“Same thing, I suppose.” 

“Except you graduated.” 

Hunk pauses. “Yeah, I did. Are you planning on letting me in?” 

“Oh. Right.” Lance steps aside, viciously thankful the dim light hides his bloodstains - for now. His chest is still stinging, though, shallow wound begging for a clean strip of gauze. He makes a mental note to accost Keith later. 

When they re-enter the living room, Shiro and Allura and Pidge have evidently resolved their disagreements. Allura has pulled a chair to the center of the room, next to the holo-screen, and is flicking through a stack of papers. Shiro has retreated to his armchair, and Pidge is still curled up in theirs, back towards the door, tufts of brown hair spiking up over the top. 

Keith is sitting where the lamplight doesn’t reach, face in shadow, the only sign of his presence being his legs tossed across the arms of the chair. 

Lance crosses silently to his own futon. 

“Oh, Hunk!” Allura announces cheerfully, rising. “No trouble, I hope?” 

“No, everything was just fine when I - “ 

Lance closes his eyes. 

“You too, Pidge?” says Hunk, less in disbelief and more in despair. 

“Look, man, it’s not exactly a college diploma, but - “ 

“Hey, Lance, no problem,” Pidge says, raising their hands. “I’m a criminal, I’ll own up to it. How’re you doing, Hunk?” 

“I’m - “ 

Lance smiles grimly despite himself, and almost immediately feels eyes boring into the back of his skull He turns his head slightly. Keith. 

_You knew_. 

There’s a furrow in Hunk’s forehead, right between his eyes, the kind he only used to get during Quantum Mechanics. “There’s no way this is a coincidence,” he says. "We're all ex-Garrison, there's no way you - " 

Allura checks her watch. “Would you mind sitting down? I have a lot to cover, and only a limited amount of time.” 

“I thought those files were sealed.” 

“Hunk, _please_. We’re on a tight schedule, and I - “ 

“Come on, Lance, Pidge, don’t you - “ Hunk looks desperately at Shiro - whether or not he notices Keith is kind of irrelevant since, because since Lance hated Keith, Hunk did too out of principle - but none of them move. “Come on, guys, you’ve got to admit, this is strange - “ 

“ _Hunk._ ” 

Even without the expensive, clinging dress, the diamonds in her silky-smooth hair, the necklace glittering at her throat, Lance can still feel the phantom breath in his ear, the fingernail digging into his jaw. This is the Allura that backed him into a corner, the one that strung him up and watched him dance, and then did the same thing to Keith, Pidge, and Shiro, so they’d follow her around on a jewel-encrusted leash. 

This is the Allura that only has to stare at Hunk, arms folded, before he sits down next to Lance on the futon. 

“Now,” says Allura quietly, “can we get back to business, please?” 

\- 

Somewhere in the hotel, an old-fashioned clock drones monotonously as Allura lays out their plan in perfect, painful detail. 

The Castle of Lions is the Galran pinnacle of entertainment and innovation. It’s a glittery, luxurious chunk of leverage, keeping the rich in check while simultaneously guarding the best entrance into Galra territory. A hub of information, a battle station stocked with loyal Galra supporters, and a state-of-the-art resort all rolled into one. 

It’s the pigeon of pigeons...if you have a death wish, that is. 

There are five sectors in the Castle of Lions: blue, yellow, green, black, and red. Each represents a different vice, a different indulgence - and none are cheap. 

The Blue Lion sits at the forefront, an impossible hotel infamous for its endless hallways and devastatingly expensive rooms, honeymoon suites with bathrooms the size of a small house, and beds large enough to fit a family. Every Castle guest stays at the hotel, whether or not they want to. Rumor has it King Zarkon himself books a room, buried somewhere within the labyrinth. 

Truth has it that his son, Prince Lotor, owns a room on the highest floor. 

For the particularly peckish, the Yellow Lion is a short walk away, the galaxy’s best restaurant housed entirely within a gorgeous glass prism. Cuisines from planets near and far combine in one endless buffet, wrapping around itself again and again. Guests claim they are never able to find a certain dish more than once, and, no matter how refined their palate may be, they can never quite identify all the ingredients in their meals. 

After stuffing their stomachs (and similar organs), guests can take a bullet train to the Green Lion, and gamble away their inheritance underneath massive chandeliers, never without a thin-stemmed glass of wine or champagne in hand. The Green Lion’s bar is almost as famous as its casino, both equally well-stocked with chance and mystery. One of the most coveted employment positions is as a bartender or dealer, resplendent in their old-fashioned black and white uniforms, and their ability to coax tips from extremely inebriated guests. 

Most guests are largely content to pass their time in the Blue, Yellow, or Green Lions. There’s no lack of entertainment, and all windows are deeply tinted or plastered with holo-screens to simulate an experience of constant night. 

But if you know what you’re looking for, the Black Lion isn’t far. Hail the right cab, offer the driver a small, gold-leaf invitation, and he’ll take you deep underground, where the Black Lion’s vicious stadium waits. Attendants in appropriately pitch uniforms swirl through screaming, writhing crowds, offering black market liquor as imported fighters from around the galaxy battle on a massive stage. The rules and weapons vary depending on matches, but the end result is always the same: one body lying prone against the dirt. 

Rumor has it that King Zarkon has a reserved box, but everybody knows where Prince Lotor sits. 

But if there’s still a buzz underneath your skin, unquenched by alcohol and food and violence, you can always try the Red Lion. The neon lights are resplendent from miles away, and every bass drop trembles through the earth. Dancers are brought in from all across the galaxy, regardless of gender, paid outrageously to wear strings of diamonds and gauzy fabric sewn entirely from gold. Drugs aren’t just sold; they’re encouraged. Trying to forget about an ex-lover? Dying to visit another dimension? The answer is always the same, accompanied by a gloved hand and a fanged grin: we’ve got just the thing. 

Rumor has it King Zarkon never visits. 

Prince Lotor’s booth is reserved nightly, best view, closest to the stage. 

Allura relays all of this in a soft monotone, as mellow and soothing as the pool of lamplight bouncing off the walls. The grandfather clock keeps ticking, droning. 

Afterwards, she passes around a stack of manila folders. 

“The first stage of any operation,” explains Allura, clearing her throat, “is surveillance. Each of you will be in charge of managing a Lion until approximately one o’clock this morning. I have your I.Ds, nametags, uniforms cleaned, and earpieces which will connect all of us to each other. Until I give the signal, no one moves from their post.” 

Lance checks his watch: still two and a half hours until midnight. 

“Pidge, you will be stationed at the Green Lion,” Allura continues. “Lance, you’ll stay here at the hotel. Keith and Shiro, you two will take the train to the Red and Black Lions, and Hunk will take care of Yellow. At one, I’ll pull you out, and we will regroup here.” She takes a deep breath. “Questions?” 

"We're all from the Garrison," Hunk says immediately, like it's something he's been dying to confirm rather than an undeniable fact. One captain, one ex-valedictorian with daddy issues, one ex-salutatorian with God-knows-what issues, a tech genius with a knack for blackmail, and an ace mechanic, pilot, engineer, cook - whatever you needed, really. All Garrison dropouts, except for one. "Tell me why we're all here."

"If it helps, I don't remember any of you," offers Shiro, heavy with the implied _except for Keith_.

Lance snorts. "No, that doesn't help, thanks."

Allura sighs, putting a hand to her forehead. "If you're looking for a coincidence, it lies in the fact that all of you pursued illegal careers after your education: Shiro as a hitman, Lance and Keith as thieves in their own professions, Pidge as a informant, and yourself, Hunk, as a mole for this very Castle." Lance can't honestly say he's surprised, but Pidge's eyes widen. "I simply attained your records - which were not sealed, by the way - and decided you would best fit the demands of this job. There was no ulterior motive involved, as I'm sure you're wondering. And, quite simply, that is all beside the point. Any _relevent_ questions?"

Silence sticks against the walls like a leech. Allura has made it seem deceptively easy - in and out, like they're some professionally-approved team built for perfect precision. 

Yeah, more like chess pieces curled up in overstuffed armchairs. 

“Lovely,” says Allura at length, getting briskly to her feet. “I expect all of you to leave within a half hour.” 

And that’s the end of it. 

Or, rather, how it starts. 

No balloons and fanfare, no tall, sparkling glasses of champagne. Shiro stands up, crosses the room wordlessly, and disappears down one of the hallways. After a moment, Keith follows. 

The old, familiar ache begins to pound in Lance’s temples. 

_Here we fucking go,_ he thinks. 

And just like that, a twelve hour job to kidnap the second-most dangerous man in the galaxy - perhaps the second-most dangerous man _ever_ \- begins.


	5. Chapter 5

Unable to resist, Lance takes a hot shower, letting the clean water and complementary citrus-scented soap swirl into the drain at his feet. 

The cut on his stomach still stings - an angry red mouth gaping in the divot between his hipbone and the bottom of his ribcage. Lance drops a hand absentmindedly, brushing the inflamed skin, and winces as a stray soap sud slides from his fingertip into the open wound. 

Fucking _Keith_. 

Lance can’t even justify the argument between them, which is, quite honestly, what’s frustrating him above anything else. Riling Keith up proved nothing Lance didn’t already know - including the fact that there is, apparently, no romantic connection between Keith and Shiro. Well, Lance knows a lot of people who would have a field day with that kind of confirmed information. And he’s supposedly discovered that, even though Keith is a smarmy asshole, he doesn’t run his mouth as much as he used to. 

But as for the I.D, the actual nature of Keith’s and Shiro’s relationship, and whatever Lance may or may not have had to do with old Garrison feuds… 

Well, he’s still in the dark. 

Lance closes his eyes. 

He knows Keith is still a loose cannon, with a very capable knife hidden somewhere on his body. He knows Keith spent approximately four years (give or take) floating through space in a similar state as Lance, honing whatever skills he didn’t already, naturally have. He knows Keith’s parents are either dead or dying. 

He knows Keith is the only Garrison student Shiro remembers. 

Lance opens his eyes again, mechanically rinsing shampoo from his hair. He doesn’t have very many memories of Keith - having strategically blocked them out post-Garrison expulsion - but the newest surges automatically to the front of his mind, with a psychosomatic pang from the gash on Lance’s stomach. 

Being cornered in the elevator by Allura was one thing, but by Keith… A loose cannon, yeah, but he could’ve done it. He _would’ve_ done it, with no regard for the consequences, whereas Allura obviously needs Lance alive. He grabs the bar of soap without looking, running it across his shoulders, arm, chest - 

_Shit_. 

Honestly? Lance blames the tension. The idea of taking a job so goddamned suicidal and dangerous and _stupid,_ any reasonable person would be on the next flight home. Anyone who does this shit for a living is either an adrenaline junkie or a masochist. Plus, there’s the undeniable fact that in less than two hours, he’s been pinned against a wall (or fridge) by two seperate people. 

He’s half hard, and already aching for a release. 

He has no idea what time it is, but at the rate his dick is going, Lance figures this won’t take long at all. And there’s no way he’ll be able to face Allura - or the rest of the team - like this, a coiled knot of stress and nerves and… _something_ else pushing against his gut. He sighs quietly, resigned but entirely self-justified. 

Okay, so maybe it’s been a little while since he’s jacked off. 

Lance skims a hand down his chest, slick with hot water. The knot in his stomach tightens the lower he gets, brushing across his nipples, the jut of his hip, but he’s just too impatient to draw this out. Lance hisses quietly when he finally wraps a hand around his cock. 

The heat of the water, the friction of his calloused palm against aching, sensitive skin… He leans his head back against the shower wall, eyes sliding shut. Familiar images run through his head as he strokes himself roughly: old lovers, one night stands in dark hotel rooms, planets in the middle of nowhere. Long hair draping across his shoulders, a pair of soft lips, a warm, velvety heat - 

Lance groans, hips jerking into his hand, the promise of release flooding his body. He picks up speed, settling into a rhythm. He’s embarrassingly close already - really, how long _has_ it been? 

One moment, Lance is thinking about a pink-skinned girl he’d met up with on Medea, her mouth covering his own as she flexed around him - the next, an image fills his head unbidden, an arm pressed against his throat, hot breath burning against his cheek - 

Lance’s hips stutter, he can _feel_ the phantom pressure on his chest, and then it’s over, he’s spilling into his hand, a quiet _fuck_ on his lips and a name buried in the back of his throat. 

He comes (hah) to, breathing hard, trembling limbs still braced against the shower wall. 

Lance opens his eyes. The realization settles underneath his skin with an icy chill despite the hot water still cascading around him. 

_He just came while thinking about Keith Kogane._

What the _fuck?_

Of course he’s no stranger to guys - Lance is openly bisexual, has never able to resist a pretty face from either gender. Alien species are a little more complicated, although he’s always willing to try. But as the high fades, something very close to embarrassment begins to curl in his stomach - and Lance _doesn’t_ get embarrassed. Ever. 

God, he can’t think about this right now. He rinses his hand underneath the shower stream and shoves the memory into the back of his mind. Lance has work to do - work that does not care about his dick or its subsequent fantasties. 

He steps out into the cool air, toweling the last drops of water from his hair. Then he ties the towel around his waist and leans over the toilet, rifling through the shelves of a cabinet well-stocked for illegal emergencies: morphine, a needle and thread for stitches, some travel-sized vodka for sterilization, and a small box of clean white gauze and medical tape. 

Lance sits on the toilet lid and uncorks a bottle of vodka. The liquid burns and reeks of hospitals, but without all the dried blood and shredded skin, he can tell the wound isn’t deep enough to warrant stitches. He sits forward and rips off a strip of gauze. With one hand, he holds it against his stomach, and with the other, he tears two pieces of medical tape. 

Another dash of vodka - and a good deal of quiet wincing - and Lance gets to his feet. His limbs are still stiff and heavy with afterglow, but he shakes the feeling away. The leftover steam from his shower has finally dissipated, leaving a smudged mirror and a cool, air-conditioned breeze that sweeps across Lance’s skin. 

He heads back to the bedroom, where his outfit for tonight sits neatly on his bedspread. Lance eyes it gingerly: a sleek black suit, an ocean-blue tie. A tiny earpiece poised slightly atop the folded pile of clothes. A pair of black gloves, thin and flexible. 

A name tag stating, in clear, crisp text: Sebastián Valenciano. 

Lance dresses quickly, deft fingers working the knot of his tie. He saves the tag and earpiece for later, instead grabbing a portable makeup kit from his duffel bag, a tube of hair gel and some spray, and a box of colored contacts, before heading back into the bathroom. 

The warmth from his shower has long faded, leaving only the lingering smell of soap. Lance drops his makeup kit on the counter and rummages in his pocket for the I.D Allura had passed out earlier. Most of his information is eerily correct, printed in clean lines of black text - height, weight, genetic code, astrological sign - but the accompanying picture features two very brown eyes staring back at Lance from underneath a fringe of messy, equally brown hair. 

Honestly, Lance isn’t surprised. He spends more time wearing contacts than not - it’s statistical probability that Allura would choose one of those pictures for her file. 

Those particular lenses were one-time use, though, cheap and disposable. Lance checks a couple of newer options against the photo I.D before selecting one set, dumping them into a container of solution and propping his elbows against the countertop, leaning as close as he can to the vanity mirror. Without two fingers, he pulls his eyelid open and pops the first contact into place, blinking the excess liquid away. 

He’s already got the second lense on his fingertip, bent over the sink, letting his pupil dilate and swivel, bracing for the imminent intrusion - 

“Jesus _Christ,_ this is a - “ 

Lance swears, dropping the contact lense and whirling around, and he’s ready to demand what the _hell_ Keith - the guy who fucking _stabbed him_ like, an hour ago - is going in his bathroom when - 

Um. 

“Uh,” Lance says helpfully, and gestures. “You, uh - “ 

“Don’t,” snaps Keith, the flush on his cheekbones vibrant enough to challenge the deep crimson of his outfit. “Don’t you fucking dare, Lance, how did you even - “ 

A little belatedly, Lance’s brain re-connects to the mainframe with only a couple stray sparks of electricity, and it’s enough to remember one very crucial detail. 

“Allura said this was a conjoined bathroom,” he says. “It’s your room on the other side, isn’t it?” 

Keith’s eyes flash. 

Very deliberately, Lance does _not_ look down. 

“Whatever,” Keith retorts at last, turning to face the mirror and carding experimentally through his own hair. “Just - God, for once, just don’t say anything, got it?” 

“You got it, man.” 

Because, really, what is Lance supposed to say? 

Keith looks like a stripper. 

He, undeniably, irrevocably, looks like a stripper. 

He’s wearing a perfect rendition of a Red Lion waiter’s uniform: black leggings with lace designs woven elaborately up (and _all_ the way up) the sides; a loose black crop top, rising every time Keith lifts his shoulders, and also made mostly of lace - long, tight sleeves, and the top half of the shirt, just under Keith’s collarbone. 

The worst part, though, is the red ribbon draped endlessly around the curves and divots of Keith’s body. It’s actually impossible; seamless; a hypnotizing pattern like a cross between a delicate Christmas bow and shibari. It’s loose and some places and pulled taut in others. It’s ridiculously, senselessly complex. 

And Lance can’t stop staring at it. 

He knows he’s staring at it. 

He… 

“I can _feel_ you looking,” snaps Keith, tugging at the high lace collar of his shirt. “Stop it.” 

Lance exhales. There’s an itch working deep underneath his skin, but he still has makeup to do, and he refuses to give Keith the satisfaction of…whatever this is. Keith, for his part, is resolutely ignoring everything, squinting at his reflection as he pulls the longest sections of his hair into a messy ponytail. 

Lance applies his makeup as quickly as possible and tries not to run out of the small (and getting smaller) double bathroom. The smell of Keith’s cologne follows him, thick and heady. 

_So this is karma,_ he thinks. _Huh._

There’s a trick he’s used before: compartmentalizing, or whatever. Keeps him from thinking too much about home, or too much about the Garrison - really, just too much about anything. Moderation. Everything in moderation. 

He closes his eyes and shoves all thoughts of Keith - no, not like _that_ \- into a tiny cardboard box. Then he puts the box in a ten-foot blazing bonfire. Then he scoops up the ashes and puts them in an urn, and buries the urn in a six foot grave. 

There. Back to business. 

Lance attaches his name tag and inserts his earpiece. He checks himself in the full-length mirror one last time - the one leaning against his bedroom wall, throwing the crisp edges of his suit in sharp relief. And despite everything, the same, eerily existential feeling creeps over him, just like what he felt at the end of Allura’s little speech. 

It’s this absence of something, colliding again and again with the overwhelming presence of something _else,_ weightier, worse. Lance feels like he should be taking pictures, writing notes in a journal. Toasting in a darkened room to some cause greater than himself, a cause worth - 

Oh, that is _not_ the road he wants to go down right now. 

_Compartmentalize._

Lance closes his bedroom door and heads back to the living room. A dim, pale light pierces the still-drawn curtains, throwing strange patterns onto the thick ornate carpet. 

Pidge is standing next to the window, shirt sleeves rolled up. 

“Nice view,” Lance quips, not entirely approaching Pidge’s side, but he hears them huff out a quiet laugh. “Bullet train,” they say, gesturing. “It’s been running pretty consistently for the last twenty minutes.” 

“Been here that long, huh?” 

“Yeah, you guys take forever.” Pidge turns their head slightly; the loss of their spectacles makes their eyes appear wiser, older. “Hey, Hunk.” 

Lance turns, too. Hunk lingers in the doorway, a waiter’s apron knotted around his waist, brown hair loosely tied back. He looks distinguished, professional - and, for a reason Lance can’t quite make out in the shadows - irrationally terrified. 

“Where’s Allura?” asks Hunk. 

“Hello to you too, buddy,” Lance says. “Probably in her room, why?” 

“I… had a question.” Hunk’s hands are twisting the underside of his apron, and after a moment, he realizes it and immediately sits down in the nearest armchair. 

“Look at us,” Pidge comments dryly, leaning against a bare stretch of wall next to the window. “Old Garrison pals. Maybe we should go out for drinks when all this - “ they gesture vaguely - “is over.” 

Hunk frowns. “Pidge, you’re nineteen.” 

“And?” 

“To be fair, it’s not the most illegal thing any of us have done,” Lance points. “Like, not even by a long shot.” 

“Yeah, can we not talk about that?” Hunk asks. 

Lance raises his hands. “Whatever, man. It’s a nice thought, Pidge, but as soon as this shit’s done, I’m getting the hell out.” 

“Me, too,” Hunk says. “I’ve got to start job hunting after this.” 

“Man, you guys are no fun.” 

Lance snorts. “You could always hang out with Keith. Or Allura. Hey, maybe you can cozy up to Shiro and jog his memory a little bit.” 

He’s only halfway serious - God knows whatever’s going through Shiro’s head, like, ever - but Pidge straightens, eyebrows pulled together. “Yeah, I was wondering,” they say. “What’s up with him?” 

“Maybe we weren’t that memorable,” Hunk suggests. 

“Excuse you, I think my disciplinary actions were very resonant.” 

“What Lance _means_ to say,” Pidge corrects, “is that we were all scholarship recipients. Hell, Lance was salutatorian. There’s no way Shiro just forgot something like that.” 

“He didn’t forget Keith,” Lance points out. 

Pidge smirks. “Well, we all know why that is - “

One person is suddenly very silent in all of this, and Lance casts a sideways glance. Sure enough, Hunk is hesitating, fingers knotting in his apron again. “Hunk…” 

“Come on, Lance, don’t look at me like that.” 

“You don’t get to be a mole at the Castle of Lions,” Lance argues, “without Takashi Shirogane crossing your desk.” 

Hunk is a great pilot, a solid engineer, and a phenomenal chef, but he’s too goddamned loyal to be a good liar. 

“There’s a rumor,” Hunk says at last, sinking into the shadows of his armchair, voice very nearly imperceptible, echoing against the high ceiling, “that Shiro was kidnapped during a mission for the Garrison.” 

Pidge is silent, but Lance’s eyebrows raise smoothly. “Go on.” 

“Nobody’s sure who actually captured Shiro. Some groups want to claim false credit; others are smart enough not to talk. Either way, it doesn’t matter. They were experimenting with some kind of technology, supposedly, and it backfired, blowing Shiro’s memory to bits. And - “ Lance closes his mouth, only a little chastened - “before you ask, I have no idea why he remembers Keith. They must’ve been in contact after the kidnapping.” 

_Now_ Pidge frowns. “So, hold on, Shiro escaped?” they ask. “How?” 

Hunk shrugs. “Beats me.” 

“Maybe Keith rescued him,” Lance starts to say, but no, the timeline doesn’t add up. Shiro left the Garrison towards the end of Lance’s final term - for a mission, supposedly, but it’s the only time Lance can think where he would be vulnerable to kidnap. At that point, both Keith and Lance were still at the Garrison. His mind feels like it’s about to explode. “That’s how Shiro got his metal arm, right?” he says instead. 

Pidge’s frown deepens. “Shiro has a metal arm?” 

“Why don’t you ask him?” 

Hunk stands up at the same time Pidge spins around, while Lance keeps his gaze deliberately locked on the television screen, a steady slideshow of Kodak moments and crystalline beaches. 

He can _hear_ Keith fold his arms, dark eyes narrowing and chin lifting slightly, the same face as when he had Lance pinned against the kitchen fridge. The memory reappears uncomfortably despite all attempts to stifle it. 

“Why don’t you ask him?” Keith repeats, dangerously soft. “Hello, Hunk. It’s been a while, right?” 

“I remember you,” Hunk says stiffly. 

Neither of them comment on Keith’s outfit, and Lance wonders briefly if he’d imagined the whole thing. He drops his gaze reluctantly, and immediately regrets it. 

Like Hunk, Keith’s hair is pulled back, but unlike Hunk, he’s now wearing very noticeable makeup - a reddish tint to his lips, a dusting of glitter and shadow on his eyelids. He’s not wearing heels, thank God, but his leggings still cling to the outlines of well-defined muscle, and Lance swallows hard and looks away again. 

Ever the faithful guard dog, Shiro isn’t far behind, appearing next to Keith and seeming relatively unchanged. He’s traded nondescript day clothes for a black shirt and pants, but the most obvious difference is his hair, dyed a deep, rusty auburn. 

Pidge says sarcastically, “Looking good, Agent Scully.” 

“Thanks,” responds Shiro.

“If you’re trying to go incognito,” Lance points out, beyond grateful for something to say besides _hey, Keith looks like an extra for a Beyoncé video!_ “that’s not going to work.” 

“The Black Lion is dark,” Allura says calmly, edging behind Keith and Shiro into the center of the room. Her hands are stained faintly red, but otherwise, she’s the only one who doesn’t look like a completely different person - who isn’t going to _become_ a completely different person. 

God, it’s weird. 

“No one will be looking at the wait staff,” Allura adds. “If he remains relatively silent, he is likely to go unnoticed.” She scans them all - Lance silhouetted next the curtained windows, Pidge leaning against the wall, Hunk in the armchair, and Keith and Shiro framed in the doorway like two sides of the same coin. “Well?” 

Lance moves first, pressing a finger against his earpiece. “Testing, one, two.” 

“I can hear you,” Allura responds, and her voice crackles into his ear at the same time it floats through the still air. It’s not peaceful, though - could never be peaceful, five criminals in the same room. Sounds like the beginning of a joke. 

_A thief, a grifter, a hacker, a jack, and a muscle all walk into the same bar - and oh, by the way, they all hate each other’s guts…_

No, the air is holding its breath. 

Pidge’s voice filters through his head, followed by Hunk’s, Keith’s, and finally, Shiro’s. 

“Good,” says Allura at last, letting her hand settle at her side. “Now, I know the majority of you are unused to grifter work. Direct any questions at Lance, or myself, should he be otherwise occupied.” Lance tries to put on a reassuring face. “However, for the most part, you should try to remain a passing thought in these guests’ minds. They don’t see you. They don’t care about you. You are a means to an end.” 

_And, right now, so are they,_ Lance thinks. _Morbid_. 

He’s excited. God, it’s probably terrible, and he’s a terrible person, but the adrenaline is flooding through his veins, and Lance can’t stand still. His hands are twitching - _this is what he’s good at._

“Finally,” Allura says quietly, beginning to walk towards the windows, “remember what we’re here for. Look for habits, patterns, and security codes. Which guests are important enough to know where Lotor may spend his time, and which are smoke screens and facades. I have an idea as to where this job may lead, but Voltron’s knowledge of the Castle is limited. There may be puzzle pieces we are not even aware of, information vital to the success of this mission. We are in the maw of the beast, paladins. Keep your eyes open.” 

With a flick of her wrist, she pulls back the curtains at last. Cool moonlight floods the room, marbling Lance’s skin - and, in the distance, a glittering skyline of poison-coated luxury. 

“Good luck,” Allura says. “In two hours, I will pull you out no matter where you are.” 

_And then the real fun begins,_ Lance thinks. 

“Let’s knock this out,” he mutters. 

There’s nothing else to be said - what are they gonna do, wish each other good luck like novices? - so through some mutual agreement, they file silently out of the living room and down the darkened hallway. And when they step out into the hall, five criminals silhouetted with dripping golden lamplight, Allura locks the door behind with a quietly damning _click._

And then they’re on their own. Staring at each other. 

As the Castle of Lions, the most dangerous moon in the galaxy, is coming to life around them. 

-

They take separate elevators to the lobby. Lance watches the floor numbers tick silently, and does his best to get into character. He’s confident, though - not overly, but enough to ooze the kind of natural, talk-to-me charm that other grifters have wet dreams about. Evidently Allura thinks he’s more than just a kid off the black market. And, well, it’s about time he started acting like it. 

Surveillance duty is, relatively, simple. The ideal objective is to scope out a handful of targets who might know valuable information: security details, hosts/hostesses, and high-risk friends, among others. You arrange a short list and strike up a couple conversations - pickpocket, if you’re really feeling confident - and, over the course of the night, gain some insight into floor plans, inner circles, whatever you’re looking for. 

Then you leave, and leave your conversationalists wondering if they really ever met you at all. 

Lance takes a deep breath as the elevator stops smoothly. He raises a hand to his earpiece and says, “I’m in position.” 

“Good hunting,” Pidge responds immediately, their dry humor distorted with static, and Hunk echoes a similar sentiment. 

He steps into the lobby, thick, perfumed air clinging to his lungs. The crowds from earlier are heavier, buzzing with longer dresses and more expensive suit fabric, and the polished champagne flutes and luminescent appetizer platters reflect golden light from the chandelier above, momentarily blinding. Lance blinks, sliding automatically between a potted plant and a tipsy guest. 

At the back of the lobby, there’s a bar, and behind the bar is a kitchen. Lance knows this even without blueprints. He falls in line behind another waitress, weaving between crowded stools and glittery trains, squeezing behind the bar counter, and bumping his shoulder against two busily swinging doors. At the front of the kitchen, a cart stocked with appetizers and champagne waits - _perfect_. Lance grabs the nearest platter, spins on his heel, and returns briskly to the crowds, a coolly polite smile plastered across his face. 

God, he’s missed this. 

“I’m in position,” says Hunk. “Lotor’s private chef is working right next to me.” 

Despite himself, Lance swallows an out-of-character grin. “You’re in the kitchen?” 

“Trust me, you do _not_ want to see me busing tables. Yeah, he doesn’t come in until midnight, but I’ve heard of him before, and his name’s on the wall.” 

“I’m set, too,” Pidge says. “No sign of Lotor.” 

“He probably gambles after dinner,” Shiro offers. So far, Allura hasn’t bothered to chip in. It’s unlikely she’s not listening, but Lance can picture her still sitting in their suite’s living room, perched upright on the couch, cold moonlight washing over face as she silently records everything they say. 

It’s not a very pleasant thought. 

Lance re-establishes his polite smile, offers his appetizers to a couple pointedly ignoring each other, and is unsurprised when they ignore him, too. 

The night is slow going at first: Keith and Shiro confirm their setup, Lance offers appetizers and the occasional bit of advice through his earpiece. He spots an abandoned invitation lying on a small table, and discovers he is, in fact, at a charity gala. It’s a celebration of Galran outreach to world leaders on Earth, which explains the Terran decorations - potted plants, flower arrangements, and ethnic art. He feeds advice through his earpiece, and listens to observations and details his teammates have noticed - a nightly schedule, a preferred meal or table game. Eventually, he sidles into a conversation between two close-ish friends of Lotor which goes something like this: 

Lance: You’re both drunk right now, and I’m offering bite-size gourmet appetizers and a very interested pair of ears. What do you know about Lotor? 

Friend #1: Who? 

Friend #2: Two weeks ago we were at a club and he gave me something so strong I’m still feeling it. Do you know where the bathroom is? I’m allergic to everything on this plate. 

After a while, Lance surmises that Lotor rarely stays in his room, but there’s enough security roaming the hotel in case he does come along eventually. Unfortunately, that means talking to security is his best option. 

He starts small: tempting them with champagne and appetizers, these weird eclair-style desserts with some kind of colored gel oozing from the inside. “Can’t drink on duty,” one of the guards had initially protested, a humanoid with a couple added appendages which, Lance had mused quietly, must be very helpful when detaining lying, scheming criminals like himself. 

Anyway, Lance had promised the guy a virgin cocktail. Then he kept coming back with champagne and some salted caramel pastries until he finally softened and took a flute. 

Lance poured on the flattery until they were drunk on that, too. 

But even tipsy, the guards’ tongues don’t wag, and after a while, Lance is honestly feeling a little frustrated - maybe he’s losing his touch? He checks his watch. There’s still plenty of time, so Lance backtracks to the kitchen, retrieves a platter of some foreign meat-and-fruit sandwiches (?) and “just happens” to fall into the same circle of security guards. 

“Oh, it’s been a pretty calm night,” he says in response to one of the guards (nametag: X. Mictlantecuhtli) fulfilling the social obligation of “oh, I don’t want to keep you - no, it’s quite all right, really - 

“Guests haven’t been terribly unruly, which is nice,” Lance adds. “But it’s still a good turnout.” 

“You know,” says X, his face particularly crimson, “you can file a complaint against rowdy guests. If there’s enough strikes, they might even get blacklisted.” 

“Oh, of course,” Lance says, smiling demurely. “But I could never do that while working. I’d have to wait until my shift ended, and - well, you wouldn’t _believe_ \- “ 

The guards laugh in unison. _Silly Lance!_ “I think we could believe it,” one promises (nametag: Mutzuag, scrawled above a series of complicated-looking sigils). He (they?) leans in confidentially. 

To be honest, Lance isn’t sure where this is going, and he’s close to dropping some line about handsey alien ladies when Allura’s voice, cool as a desert storm, crackles through his earpiece. “Keep them talking,” she urges, and it’s so unexpected he almost jumps. “I need to know where they would keep low-profile criminals until off-planet transport.” 

Lance resists the urge to take a step back. “Well, the other night,” he says, “there was a gentleman who, uh, couldn’t keep his hands to himself, if you know what I mean. I think he stole a necklace or something? Terribly bad for business. But afterwards, I didn’t see him for the rest of the night, and I always wondered what happened to him because I don’t think he ever checked out of his room, and I never saw his arrest, either. If he did get arrested, that is.” Lance smiles again. 

“Great dialogue,” Keith snips in his ear, entirely uncalled for. “Where’d you get it from, a porno?” 

“You would know,” retorts Pidge. 

One of the guards says, “Yeah, he probably went underground.” 

Lance blinks. “Sorry?” 

A guest walks by, backtracks, and takes one of the appetizers from his tray. 

“Underground,” the guard clarifies, “where the holding cells are. ‘Course, real criminals like spies or moles are transported off-moon on a prison shuttle. But the holding cells are great for everything in between, like, for instance, the occasional klepto or what have you.” 

“Interesting,” Lance says. “Where are the cells?” 

“Under the Black Lion.” The guard winks. “Can’t exactly tell you where.” 

_Yeah, yeah, but anyone small enough to fit in a ventilation shaft could figure it out, right?_ Lance thinks. Out loud, he says, “Well, that’s a relief. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to deal with…” 

Allura murmurs in his ear, “Thank you.” 

The night creeps by, slowly. 

The sky outside the stained-glass windows is pitch black, always. 

Lance is beginning to sweat underneath the expensive collar of his suit. 

Finally, Allura’s voice cuts through his earpiece again, splitting a passionate between Pidge and Shiro about which is worse: loud drunk people or rich drunk people. “Paladins,” she greets warmly, and Lance wonders if she’s just received good news. “It’s time to leave.” 

“Oh, thank God,” Pidge says. 

“I second that,” Hunk agrees. “All this food is driving me nuts. Do you know how much of it they’re throwing away? It’s ridiculous. I mean, you could feed a small colony - maybe _two_ small - “ 

Lance is already heading to the elevators, platter abandoned, when a third voice makes him stop dead, even before he hears what they say. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Keith says. A shoulder bumps into Lance’s forearm, and he tosses an automatic scowl at the disappearing back of a young Terran man - brown hair, the hint of wire-frame glasses hooked around his ear. 

“Why not?” Allura’s voice is carefully controlled. 

“Because - “ A burst of static interrupts, overlapping voices, a furious shout somewhere in the distance. Then Keith sighs, crystal-clear, and he sounds more annoyed than anything, like he’s experiencing a particularly nasty bout of traffic. 

“There’s somewhere here who recognizes me,” Keith says. “A Galran. And he won’t let me leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one.....was a little tough, not my favorite probably because i feel like there's not a lot going on?? but i had to get all the transitions and backstory and information etc etc in there somewhere......so hopefully the next chapter will be a lot more action-packed!!


	6. Chapter 6

Keith’s empty armchair sits alone in its corner, strewn with moonlight. Allura doesn’t glance at it, but Shiro does - about twice every three minutes, Lance notices. 

Hunk silently passes around a plate of eclairs he’d managed to sneak from the kitchen. 

Pidge dozes. 

At last, Allura sighs, checking her watch. “Paladins, your ten minutes of mourning are up,” she says, rising and taking her place at the center of the room. With her sleek black jumpsuit, silver hair pulled into a high ponytail, Lance can’t help thinking that if there were a chandelier over her head, this could be a great scene from an action thriller. “Tell me what you found.” 

_Ten minutes of mourning_ \- a joke, mostly for Shiro, who returns to Earth reluctantly, straightening in his chair. “I don’t know who - “ 

He stops abruptly, the rest of his sentence killed by Allura’s raised hand. “Not,” she says, “about Keith.” 

Lance’s eyebrows raise to his hairline - and he’s not the only one. “What do you mean, not about - “ 

“Hunk.” 

Never one to back down, though, Hunk stares into the tottering pastry tower like it’s a portal to the Red Lion. “Keith’s our teammate, we can’t just leave him behind.” 

“We are not leaving him behind,” Allura responds coolly, unimpressed. “Paladins, please. Give me a little credit.” 

“But how do you know he’s not in danger?” 

“Well, if he were in danger,” Pidge points out, yawning, “don’t you think he would’ve found a way to warn us? I agree with Allura. We have to move on.” 

“ _Thank_ you.” 

Shiro doesn’t seem to like this conclusion either, but neither he nor Hunk complain. Lance thinks back to the folder Pidge had showed him last night - the one with Keith’s picture. It’s not entirely implausible, he decides, to speculate whether or not Pidge knows who this mystery captor is. Potentially Allura, too, but - not, that’s a bit of a stretch. 

But Shiro _doesn’t_ know. 

And that’s something. 

Allura is talking again, and Lance forces himself back into the conversation. She’s going over the information they’d gathered earlier: turns out, their surveillance did a lot more than just earn a plateful of pastries. 

According to Pidge, the Green is an excellent, high-profiting front: underneath its thick, cigarette-perfumed carpet, a labyrinthine database hums endlessly, crunching credit numbers, ID info, registration lists, and receipts of every purchase from room service to little white pills. Naturally, physical access is restricted to top levels of clearance, and digital access is just as tricky. “You can bet the security will be a nightmare,” Pidge says, “but if we’re going to get out of this place, we’ll need to confirm our exit with the database. So one way or another, we’ve got to get in.” 

Allura nods, expressionless. “What about Lotor?” 

“Likes the table games, apparently. But I didn’t see him.” 

“No surprises there,” Hunk says. “Shiro was right. Lotor was on his way to the casino when I left the Yellow Lion - he likes to gamble after he eats.” 

The Yellow Lion, Hunk reports, is a foolproof ticket into any location. Behind the kitchen, there are lockers one combination away from providing a full range of potential costumes, and after a name tag, plate, and apron, you’re just one of several hundred servers milling the Castle. Even room service orders come straight from the Yellow Lion, shuttled to the hotel’s small prep kitchen by a private underground train. 

“Like I said, I saw Lotor,” adds Hunk. “He wasn’t eating alone, but I didn’t recognize them. I didn’t see guards, either, but I can’t imagine they weren’t close by. Also, I managed to talk to the head chef. But I didn’t learn much - at least, I don’t _think_ I did…” Hunk trails off, a little awkwardly. Lance can sympathize. It’s like putting together puzzle pieces, only you have no idea what the puzzle is actually supposed to look like. Plus, if you get it wrong, you’ll probably die. 

Allura nods again, though, seemingly satisfied. “Shiro?” 

Shiro sits up. The auburn dye in his hair is already fading - it must’ve been ridiculously cheap. There are frown lines carved into his forehead and between his eyes, and he’s wearing, Lance notices, a set of colored contacts. A lot of disguise for a short surveillance mission. Who in the Black Lion would be able to recognize Takeshi Shirogane? 

“The arena was easy to get into,” Shiro says. “They’re not concerned about a possible security breach because they know the customers on this moon are loyal Galran supporters. The competition is tournament style, but not gladiatorial: the fighters want to be there. They board and train underneath the Lion, alongside - “ His gaze slides across the room, settling on Lance. “Well, alongside the temporary prison cells. It’s the perfect security system. You’d have to fight your way past potentially hundreds of trained warriors.” 

“Well, lucky we have a trained warrior of our very own, then,” mutters Lance. Shiro’s mouth quirks, almost like he’s about to smile, but the moment disappears just as swiftly. 

Interesting. 

Underneath Allura’s hawkish stare (add a fluorescent lamp, and she’d make a great interrogator), Lance relays his own observations from the Blue Lion: the jail cells, Lotor’s room and habits, what drinks the bar is famous for. He can’t help wondering, though, why _he_ got assigned to the Blue Lion - objectively the safest, easiest, and dullest task. What’s to wheedle out of a few tipsy aristocrats? He would’ve killed for a chance at Black, or even Red. 

But he knows better than to admit this out loud. 

Allura absorbs all of this information silently, and when Lance is finished, she picks up a small remote from the coffee table and points it at the holoscreen. A series of blueprints flickers to life. 

Then she looks at them all expectantly. “Well?” 

Pidge frowns. “Well, what?” 

“What do you suggest?” 

“Um, I don’t - “ Allura waits, watching Pidge fidget nervously with the wire of their glasses - a habit from their Garrison days. 

“Okay, hold up a minute,” says Lance, rubbing his eyes. Honestly, he has no idea what game Allura’s decided to cook up now - and anyway, they’re supposed to be on a schedule, right? “Aren’t _you_ the spider?” 

“I am, yes.” 

“So…” 

“So this is how Voltron operates,” Shiro interrupts. “Team-based operations. Collaborative skills.” 

Alarm bells are ringing faintly in Lance’s ears. “How do _you_ know how - “ 

“Yeah, let’s all trust each other,” Hunk says sarcastically. “That’s great. Especially for the person we, you know, abandoned in the Red Lion?” 

Pidge points at Shiro. “You were a hitman for the black market.” 

“I - yes?” 

“Well, then you know that’s not how it works. For me, Lance, or Hunk. We get a job. We do the job. We get paid. And we’re not exactly the best at holding hands and skipping around the fire.” 

“That’s not the point. We’re supposed to use the information we’ve gathered, and the resources we have available, to create and execute a plan. Together.” Shiro glances up, dark eyes unreadable. “Isn’t that right, Allura?” 

Before she can respond, Hunk interrupts. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, “but hasn’t everyone in this room, excluding Allura, been incarcerated at some point?” 

“Technically,” Shiro offers, “I was kidnapped.” 

“Okay, but the point still stands.” Hunk looks at Allura, whose expression remains stubbornly unchanged. “Even though we’re supposedly professionals in our field, we’ve all messed up at some point. And now you’re expecting _us_ to build a foolproof plan that doesn’t end in one or all of us dying? I’m just saying, I think you should have a little more responsibility when it comes to the fate of our lives, especially when you’re the one who hired us.” 

Silence. 

Finally, Allura spreads her hands. “You all know the stakes,” she says. “The offer to leave still stands.” 

And that...well, that pretty much kills the argument right there. 

Hunk slumps reluctantly back into his armchair. 

Lance sighs, rubbing his temple. “Okay, so we’ll collaborate.” This night keeps getting longer and longer. “Anyone got any brilliant ideas?” 

“Sneak into the casino,” Pidge mutters dryly. “Clock Lotor on the head. Get out without anyone noticing. Get rich.” 

“This would be a lot easier,” Hunk points out, “if we killed him instead.” 

Allura’s eyes flash dangerously. “We are _not_ killing him.” 

“I was just - oh, never mind,” Hunk sighs. “Anyway, Keith is still in the Red Lion, despite my best efforts. If he’s on the inside, maybe we could…” He trails off, glancing at - Shiro? 

“Set him up?” Shiro says flatly. 

Hunk shifts, looking away again. 

Lance closes his eyes. 

Well, he probably should’ve seen this coming. Of course it’s in their best interests to betray each other, but betrayal implies at least a semblance of trust, and Lance would honestly rather have a disciplinary officer from the Garrison watching his back. 

Except… 

Okay, so he trusts Pidge. A little. _A lot._ And Hunk is still painfully loyal, so if it really came down to it, would they betray Lance - or would it be the other way around? 

There’s an icy, tangible shift as the same realization crawls across the room. Lance can feel eyes on him, but he fixates pointedly on Allura. “Well, it’s a pretty good gamble, isn’t it?” he guesses. “We get out of here alive, you turn us in. We don’t get out, and, you know, that’s it. Or we turn each other in, and you pick up a nice ransom fee. Just out of curiosity, how much am I worth?” 

Allura checks her watch and doesn’t respond. 

“I can understand being less than Shiro,” Lance continues. “Especially if he’s toting a nice chunk of Galra tech. But less than Keith - now _that’s_ an insult to my - “ 

“Lance.” 

He waves Pidge off without looking. “You’re so fond of the idea that we should work together and trust each other when, in every scenario, you’re the one who comes out on top no matter what. Which means it’s in our best interests to - “ 

“Lance, shut the fuck up,” Pidge snaps, and it’s so unexpected - less like a kitten growling and more like a kitten transforming into a saber-toothed tiger - that the words die in his mouth. Pidge is on their feet, eyes glittering. “Hunk is right.” 

“I am?” 

“You _are?_ ” 

Pidge lunges for the coffee table, scattering files, loose-leaf papers, a stack of photographs, before seizing their prize and waving it triumphantly in the air. “Keith’s I.D!” 

Before, Shiro had been frowning, waiting for the other shoe to drop - but now his expression begins to smooth over. Obviously, he’s seeing something Lance isn’t. Which he’ll admit is more than a little frustrating. 

“Okay kids, listen up,” Pidge orders, obviously displeased by their less-than-thrilled audience. They move to the center of the room, which is - recently vacated, how did Lance not notice? Allura is standing near the window, a tiny smile beginning to play on her lips. 

“Lance, you should know what I’m talking about,” Pidge adds, “since you kind of threw a fit about it.” And - okay, it’s actually coming back to him a little bit. He can see the card in Pidge’s hand, but what exactly makes it so pivotal? “To be fair,” he says, injured, “it takes two to tango.” 

“Whatever. Anyway, this I.D is supposedly printed with Keith’s actual information - or at least, enough that it wouldn’t set off a red flag if you cross-examine it with, say, one of the largest databases in the galaxy. And it’s awfully convenient that Keith is in a pretty compromising position right now. The wrong word to the wrong person could get him picked up for, I don’t know, a minor felony? He’d probably be taken to the holding cells which are - gasp! - right underneath the Black Lion. And then - “ Pidge finally falters, glancing at Allura. “And then what?” 

Allura is smiling now, full-on smiling, and it’s so terrifying Lance wishes she wouldn’t. “Half-credit. It’s true that Keith has the potential to be an excellent scapegoat. Diverting the Castle’s security would allow us to move with significantly less suspicion. However - “ 

“A conspiracy,” Lance blurts out without thinking. His heart is thudding in his chest. “You planned this, didn’t you?” 

Pidge already figured it out, and now that Lance has got it, too, Allura’s smile widens horrifically. “More or less.” 

Lance has to take a step back. How much information did Allura have access to, in order to set Keith up like this? She’d have to know who in Keith’s past would simultaneously blend in with a Galran crowd, yet remain unknown to everyone else, even Shiro. She’d have to talk to Keith, alone, getting him on her side. He flashes back to the way Allura had called them all out of surveillance - how happy she’d sounded. 

A Galran sympathetic to Voltron. Willing to overthrow their own empire. 

Someone prominent during the last four years of Keith’s life, helping him train, keeping him off the grid. 

Wiping every smudge on his record clean. 

_Holy._

_Shit._

“It’s the Blade,” Lance says, and as soon as he does, he knows it’s true. “Someone from the Blade. We’re not just going to frame Keith.” Allura’s smile looks like the fucking Cheshire Cat. Like _hah! got you!_ Except the punchline never comes. 

“You want,” Lance keeps going, the alarm bells in his brain screaming, every nerve in his body protesting, but he forces himself to stay calm, to spit it out, to - 

“Yes,” Allura says. “We are going to frame the Blade of Marmora.” 

-

It was a children’s story, really. Inter-galactic Robin Hood. The more violent parts watered down, the vengeful hero turned into a simple man with a heart of freely given gold. 

As Lance grew up, though, the stories became more like _Star Wars_ \- rebels of the galaxy fighting for a better cause in junkyard ships, banding together in secret underground locations, getting their names immortalized in the history books of all the studious alien children. There weren’t commemorative movies and action figures, but the stories were popular enough, especially as the Galran Empire grew. 

And Lance… 

Well, of course he wanted to join. What kid didn’t? 

He went to the Garrison, and it was one of those things whispered in dorm rooms at night, kind of like an embarrassing secret shared between two close friends, a far-fetched dream tossed into the sky. It was a second chance, an _if I don’t make it here I’ll join them and show the Garrison what they’re missing out on_. It was a symbol of power and prowess, a best-of-the-best. It didn’t matter if you had an A in Quantum Mechanics. If you joined _them,_ it was all over. 

But the dream wasn’t just far-fetched. It was quite literally impossible, no matter how much you worked or sweated or closed your eyes and scrunched up your face and _wanted_ so badly it hurt. 

It was the fact that - supposedly - you had to be more than a good fighter, a good pilot, a loyal soldier, a brave warrior. 

It was the fact that you had to be Galran. 

Naturally, every starstruck kid at the Garrison vowed to be the exception. Including Lance. _Especially_ Lance. This rumor didn’t discourage him in the least - if anything, it made him more desperate, more determined. To work that extra bit harder. To prove to someone, something, that for him, the rules were worth bending. 

Even when Lance left, he never quite forgot this dream. Actually, he thought about it a lot, between jobs, during jobs. When he pulled something off so successfully, he wondered if that would be the day. If they’d swoop out of nowhere and recruit him and make him good, great, _better_. 

If. 

Lance was going to be the exception. 

He was going to make the Garrison - he was going to make Keith Kogane - regret everything they’d ever said about him. 

He was going to be the first Terran to join the Blade of Marmora. 

-

They congregate in the dining room, underneath the crystal chandelier Lance had been missing earlier. They set an extra earpiece next to Shiro, for Keith, who is able to talk minimally since his captor is actually a Galran double agent. That would’ve been really helpful to know, like, an hour ago, but for some reason, nobody is faulting Keith. Actually, nobody is talking about it at all. 

It’s half past one, Earth time, and instead, Hunk is brewing enough coffee to adequately sustain a small army. 

Pidge’s face glows blue in their laptop screen, a souped-up chunk of Earth technology kept partly for sentimental value (it was their’s at the Garrison), and partly because it’s immune to almost every virus invented. Their fingers fly across the keyboard, doing God-knows-what. 

Lance sips his coffee. Honestly, it tastes like shit, but it also helps him take his mind off...things. He’s worried one wrong word will turn him into an atomic bomb. He’s worried that the next time he sees Keith, he’ll punch him in the face so hard their thief will be out of commission for the rest of the job. 

He’s worried Allura and Pidge and Hunk and Shiro are somehow aware of what he’s thinking. 

Lance distantly notices chair legs scraping across the floor next to him. Shiro sits down, mug in hand. _Oh, perfect._

“So,” Lance says conversationally. “You didn’t know Keith was part of the Blade?” Of course this is the absolute worst thing to say - rubbing salt in a wound - but Shiro’s expression doesn’t change. “No.” 

Well, that’s not helpful. 

“Okay,” Pidge says, turning their screen around. “There’s an empty room two floors above us, and as far as I can tell, no one’s moving in until tomorrow night.” They’re looking at Allura, at the head of the table, but she doesn’t respond. 

“The problem is,” Hunk points out, “we need a key.” 

“I can get a key,” Lance says, grateful to have something to do. “What else?” 

“There’s security cameras in the hallways and the elevators,” Hunk continues. “Excluding Keith, we wouldn’t be able to use the front door unless someone wiped the feed. Or we could use the windows.” 

Lance shudders. “No windows, please.” 

“Oh, are you offering?” Pidge mutters. “It’s fine. Make me do all the work.” 

“What about the cameras inside the rooms?” Shiro asks. 

“Actually, there aren’t any. Security is so beefed up everywhere else, the Castle actually trusts their paying guests. Plus, nobody wants to watch those feeds.” 

Shiro shrugs. “Fair enough.” 

“We also need security uniforms,” Hunk says. “Four of them. No, three.” He frowns. “Someone needs to bust Keith out of prison so he can meet us in the hotel.” 

“There are air ducts and a drain system in the Black Lion,” Shiro says. “For hygiene purposes, probably. I saw them earlier. Someone could easily crawl through if they were small enough, and if they knew where to look. But there would still be security inside or outside Keith’s cell.” 

All eyes turn to Lance. 

“What?” he says. Then: Oh, _hell_ no - “ 

“It is the most logical choice,” Allura speaks up at last - of course she’d throw in her weight only to screw Lance over. “Neither Shiro nor Hunk would not fit inside the ducts, and Pidge would be overwhelmed by the security. You will fetch Keith while we prepare the room upstairs.” 

“I’m a grifter, not a fucking sneak,” he snaps. “Send Pidge. They’ll be fine.” 

“Wow, thanks.” 

Allura raises an eyebrow. “Sacrificing your teammates is not very collaborative of you, Lance.” 

“I - “ He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. _Goddammit._

Of course, that’s when the earpiece across the table buzzes with familiar static, and then an equally familiar, sardonic drawl: “Don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic, McClain.” 

Lance closes his eyes. There are a million things he wants to say to Keith right now, and all of them are clamoring up the back of his throat. He forces them back down with a herculean effort. “Bite me.” 

“Yeah, rather not. I’ve been listening in, by the way. Whoever sneaks me out of the holding cells should be prepared to get me back to the hotel without alerting any more suspicion. The guards will probably know my description from either security footage or word-of-mouth.” 

“Which makes Lance an even better candidate,” smirks Pidge. “Weren’t you just boasting about your makeup skills?” 

“I never - “ 

“Perfect!” Allura claps her hands. “Let’s move on.” 

Lance glares at the earpiece. “Aren’t you going to say something?” 

“What’s there to say?” 

“I don’t know, I just assumed you’d have a stick up your ass about being the damsel in distress, specifically, you know, _my_ damsel.” 

There’s another burst of static, which Lance realizes after a red-tinted moment is Keith _laughing_. “One,” he says. “I’m not your anything. Two, if this is what you call distress, it’s no wonder the black market has you running errands like a dog. And three - “ Every muscle in Lance’s body is strung up, strung out - even the cut on his stomach throbs, the first and last time Keith will _ever_ have the upper hand. 

“Unlike some people,” Keith drawls, “I actually know how to do my job. So no, I won’t be saying anything. And if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got drinks to serve.” 

Lance counts to three. 

_You can’t throttle Keith if he’s not here_. 

He becomes slowly aware of Allura glaring at him, and then of Hunk and Pidge eyeing him like a loaded gun, and Shiro giving that disapproving frown that Lance actually really, really hates. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“May I continue?” Allura says, calm as ever. It’s not a question. 

He counts to three again. “Sure.” 

“Excellent. Now, the crux of this plan obviously relies on using the Blade of Marmora as a scapegoat to distract the Castle’s security. Which means it would be in our best interests to set them up from the beginning. Shiro, I have already spoken to a member from the Blade, and in lieu of Keith’s situation, they’ve agreed to speak to you.” 

Shiro nods. “Where are they?” 

“They haven’t told me. Someone will arrive soon to escort you, I’m sure. Lance, once Shiro returns with the costume - “ 

“Costume?” 

Allura stares at him. “For the Blade?” 

“For the - “ 

Oh. 

Oh, the irony. 

Lance isn’t going to be the Blade of Marmora’s exception, but at least he’ll get to look like one for a little while. As long as it takes to bust the _real_ exception out of prison. 

He wants to either vomit or punch something, but Lance forces himself to nod. “Yeah. I’ve got it now.” 

“Good. Pidge, I’ll need you to send the air ducts blueprints to Shiro. Optimally, you would be giving Lance directions, but you’ll be occupied hacking into the security footage, so we won’t have to worry about that later. And there are a couple of other things I need you to handle after that. Hunk and I, of course, will begin preparing the room upstairs. You mentioned you could retrieve a key, Lance?” 

“Give me five minutes and a clerk’s I.D, and yeah, I can.” 

“Excellent. I’m sure we’ll need to work out the rest of the details later, but I think this provides a suitable start. Keith?” 

“Yeah?” 

Lance’s stomach clenches. 

Allura smiles widely and says, “Tell your partner it’s time.” 

“Got it.” There’s a knock on the door, and Allura slides from her chair and beckons Shiro along with her. When the door cracks open, Lance can make out a sliver of warm light and a familiar pair of wire glasses, partially obscured by messy brown hair. 

“Well,” Hunk says, looking at the three of them still at the table. “Guess it’s the Garrison trio again.” 

Pidge halfway grins, leaning back in their seat and stretching. “Go team?” 

“Go team,” Hunk echoes. 

“Go team,” mutters Lance. 

He decides right then that he’d never, _ever_ betray Hunk or Pidge, who both act like it’s not four years of questionable moral activity splitting them apart… but that if someone offered a bounty for Keith’s or Shiro’s heads, he’d pull out his gun in a heartbeat. To be honest, he speculates the reverse is also true. 

And, you know what, it’s actually kind of a comforting thought. 

\- 

The room key is easy: Pidge downloads and prints a clerk I.D that would never pass upon closer inspection, but that Lance is able to flick at the exhausted girl working the welcome desk, and she leaves without a second thought. Then he dodges questions for a couple minutes until he can grab what he needs. 

Hunk and Allura take the key and go upstairs to do...well, whatever it is they’re doing. Lance thinks he missed that part, but he assumes he’ll figure it out later. Shiro is already gone, of course, rubbing elbows with the fucking Blade of Marmora. So, once again, it’s him and Pidge. 

“I miss your ship,” Pidge says as they’re stretched out across the futon in the main room, typing away. “The atmosphere was way better.” 

“Yeah, how do you think I feel?” Lance blows out a breath. With Pidge, at least, he can act a little less, drop his guard a little more. “This sucks. I mean, this really fucking sucks.” 

“I know, Lance.” 

Their laptop screen washes the entire back wall a cool, otherworldly blue. Lance drums his fingers against his leg and thinks about how everyone on this job has something to do right now, except for him. And then when he _does_ get an assignment, it’s crawling through air ducts to bust Keith Kogane out of the prison cell he probably belongs in. 

Yeah, this really fucking sucks. 

“I know,” Pidge says again, even though he’s pretty sure he didn’t say that last part out loud again. “Dude, you literally talked about it nonstop at the Garrison.” 

Oh. 

Well, he’s not entirely surprised.

“I just don’t _get_ it,” Lance says, tipping his head back over the armrest of his chair, deciding to fixate on a point somewhere above Pidge’s head. “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t going to be me, but why, of all people, did it have to be him? What’s so special about _Keith?_ ” 

“Well, you know, he’s kind of - “ 

Pidge stops abruptly, but it’s not, like, _oh, I got distracted and forgot what I was saying, carry on!_ It’s the kind of stop Lance knows from years of wheedling secrets out of people. The kind of stop that’s like _something just crawled into my throat and died there._

_Something you’re not supposed to know._

Lance twists around, and yeah, Pidge is fiddling with their glasses again. 

He sighs. “You know, given our record, it’s probably going to be another four years until I see you again, so you might as well - “ 

“I was going to tell you, Lance,” Pidge snaps, looking up suddenly. “Why do you always assume the worst? I was just trying to figure out where to start.” They set their laptop aside, and now the shadows and blue light and moonlight are all over the place, chasing each other. “You remember I told you I had a mark, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’ve probably already guessed this, but I’m not just keeping an eye on Keith. I’m supposed to turn him in for ransom as soon as this job is over. Thing is, Steele wouldn’t tell me why, so I did some digging. That’s how I figured out he was part of the Blade.” 

Lance _has_ already guessed most of this, thank you very much, but he tries to stifle the surge of impatience. 

“I know the rumors just as well as you,” Pidge says. “And I thought the same thing, that Keith was the exception. I mean, the dude was literally in our class back home. But if that were the case, why would Steele want him? The ransom for a traitorous Galra is way higher than whatever’s on Keith’s head, being a Terran. So I kept digging. It’s what I was doing when you found me on your ship.” 

“And I’m assuming this is the part where you tell me you hit a brick wall.” 

“Firewall,” Pidge corrects. Then they frown. “No, actually, I didn’t. Thanks for the confidence. Point is, Keith’s genetic records were sealed by the Garrison, probably sealed to him, too. Otherwise he would’ve never stayed at the Academy. God knows how he eventually found out. Shiro, maybe?” 

“Shiro said he didn’t know Keith was part of the Blade.” 

“Shiro _lied,_ Lance. Yeah, even your childhood heroes can do that. Remember the I.D? He was worried about it, too - he knew how dangerous Keith’s genetic information would be.” 

“You mean - “ 

“Yeah, Lance, I do.” Pidge almost looks guilty, but they keep looking at him, waiting for the anvil over his head to drop and crush him flat. “Keith’s part Galran.” 

And - 

Of course. 

Of _course_ it’s him.

But weirdly enough, the first thing Lance thinks isn’t gibberish. It’s not _oh my God!_ or a string of curse words, or a white-hot anger that blocks out all other senses. 

He takes a deep breath. 

Meets Pidge’s eye and says, “You’re going to turn him in, right?” 

“Well - yeah, I guess.” For the first time, Pidge looks a little uncomfortable. “I have to.” 

“Who else knows?” 

“Everyone except Hunk, I think. But they don’t know that you or I do.” 

“Keep it that way.” 

“What?” 

“I’m gonna help you,” Lance says. He hears Allura’s voice in his head - _sacrificing your teammates isn’t very collaborative, Lance!_ \- but he smiles grimly and blocks it out. “Turn Keith in. I’d like a cut of the ransom, but I’m not exactly picky about it, either.” 

“Lance - “ 

“Don’t.” And, amazingly, Pidge doesn’t. They retrieve their laptop, and the sound of clicking keys fills the room once more. 

“You’re thinking I’m a terrible person,” Lance guesses after a moment, still watching them. Pidge snorts, but doesn’t look up. “I’m thinking you still assume the worst about everyone.” 

“Maybe I’m right.” 

“Well, maybe you’re wrong.”

“But either way,” he points out, “I’m getting rich,” and Pidge snorts again and continues to work, and Lance thinks about Keith pushing him against the fridge and holding a knife to his throat, and deftly manipulating the Garrison’s flight simulator like he was born for it, and acing every class and every exam, and smiling smugly every time Lance had something to say about it. 

Yeah, Lance is right. But he also meant what he said - that it doesn’t matter. 

He’s prepared to do a lot worse, to finally get his revenge on Keith Kogane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh....i lied?? a little???? but i promise there's gonna be action in the next chapter, and i've actually got kind of an idea as to where this is going, so hopefully i'll be able to update more frequently!! but seriously ty guys so much for sticking this out so far! it really means a lot to me, esp your comments and feedback and all that fun stuff, so again thank you!! 
> 
> also i know i said i was going to post a playlist BUT i made one and some of the songs are kinda spoiler-y so i think i might hold off?? but i just want you guys to know that my personal hc is lance going apeshit for latina rappers so theres a bunch of. like. becky g and rosalia and natti natasha and stuff so. do with that what you will i guess??
> 
> (also uh idk if any of you Vibe with this but jimin's song filter from mots 7 is like. THE grifter song in my personal opinion plus it's got the latin chord progressions/beat so 10/10 would recommend)


	7. Chapter 7

Lance doesn’t need anyone to tell him he’s a good grifter. 

He’s survived on his own for four years, with no Garrison diploma, no money to his name, and no real skills to speak of. When he first launched into the inky expanse of space, fresh from expulsion, he had no idea what a grifter even _was._ Had heard of the black market maybe twice in his life. 

He _literally_ built himself from the ground up. Rock bottom with nothing to do but climb. He forged contacts at motels and bars on fringe planets, made a name for himself as desperate, hungry, willing to work for anything tangible. When the black market finally caught him, he was ready. 

A lot of people have this misconception: that the black market is a place, able to be looked at and touched and lived in and avoided. And there are outposts, true. Certain hotels with rooms off-limits to normal guests. But mostly, it’s a business card here, a peripheral glance there. A constant, lingering fear that someone is always breathing down your neck. 

It was a mechanic who worked for the market, who told Lance about grifting. Over a handful of months, Lance had gotten particularly close to her - the only shop open twenty-four hours, where electrical repairs came with a side of hot, bitter coffee. One night, she was working a handful of wires loose, and Lance was leaning against the only part of his console that wasn’t in shambles. He was thinking about home, as usual. She was humming to herself, some nostalgic tune, as usual. 

The air in the shop was swelteringly warm; the box fan in the corner of his hull hummed uselessly. 

“You know,” the mechanic said, sweat pouring down the back of her bare neck, “pretty face like that, you could do a lot better than the market’s errand boy.” 

Lance figured this comment wasn’t particularly subjective: the mechanic was married, and Lance had seen her wife a time or two, refilling the coffee pot, dropping off tools and sandwiches. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked. 

The mechanic said, “What do you know about grifting?” 

Lance didn’t know shit, of course, but he was desperate enough to pick it up fast, learning curve more like a vertical line pointed straight at the stars. There were academies, way too expensive for his meager funds, so he found their textbooks at local libraries, downloaded articles onto his holoscreen. He read late into the night, watching the swirls of nebulae outside his windshield. He practiced, got good, better, the _best._

He liked the idea of looking someone in the eye every single day, and never being recognized for who he was the day before - of discarding personalities, stories, and mistakes like an old T-shirt.

Of fitting in everywhere he went, no matter where he chose to go.

A lot of people don’t take Lance seriously. He knows it, knows what he looks like without trying. Overconfident, over-eager, over-everything. He’s okay with this. 

It makes his job that much more satisfying when he’s done. 

-

Lance looks Shiro in the eye and thanks him for retrieving the Blade’s costume. It’s his size and everything, purple and black armor probably meant to graft into his skin. Warrior and suit becoming one. That kind of philosophical bullshit. 

He goes into his room to change. The bathroom door hangs open, and Lance avoids looking at it like he’s going to see something damning painted on the mirror, horror-flick-style. The shame still curls in his stomach, though, white-hot. 

_Least I know it’s never happening again,_ he thinks grimly. 

He dresses quickly. The armor is obviously elite, lightweight yet strong, and it feels so goddamned natural against Lance’s skin, he - well, there’s a lot he wants to do. But now is not the time, so he doesn’t. 

Overtop the armor, Lance pulls on a sweater he’d stolen from Hunk’s room, and a pair of baggy jeans he’ll never admit to anyone that he owns. The neck of the sweater dips a bit low, making it look like he’s wearing an oddly patterned turtleneck, but the armor’s purple markings are hidden, and that’s probably what matters most. He throws his boots, revolver, and makeup kit into his duffel and slings it over his shoulder. He doesn’t look in the mirror when he passes by. 

Shiro waits in the living room. Pidge is still sprawled across the futon, one hand on their laptop and the other buried in a bag of chips. 

“I’m leaving,” Lance says to them, feeling like he’s talking to his mom, or something. “See you later?” 

“Whatever,” mutters Pidge. “Don’t die, I guess.” 

It’s really a confidence boost. 

“Ready to go?” Shiro asks, and Lance nods. “Okay. Uh, good luck, Pidge.” 

Since Pidge barely responded, to Lance, they don’t even acknowledge Shiro, who sighs in defeat and follows Lance down the hall. 

“Since you’re still in uniform,” Lance says in the elevator, eyeing Shiro’s pure-black garb and inconspicuously gloved hands, “I guess you’re taking me all the way to the Black Lion, right?” 

Shiro nods wordlessly. 

Lance works hard not to roll his eyes. “Look,” he says instead, as Shiro stares at the elevator doors and generally tries to pretend Lance doesn’t exist. “I get it. Keith and I have been at each other’s throats from the moment we saw each other, and you already know whose side you’re on. That’s your own business, man. It’s not my problem. But what _is_ my problem, is the fact that you’re risking this mission because you don’t like me.” 

He lets the words hang for a second, suspended in midair. And sure enough - it’s such a small change, imperceptible to anyone else - Shiro’s face begins to soften as the elevator _dings!_ cheerfully, and the doors slide open. 

Privately, Lance thinks that a strictly clinical relationship with the Garrison captain he once admired is going to be a lot better in the long run for both of them. 

They wind through the lobby, which Lance knows pretty well by now, but Shiro takes him through a side hallway, past famous artworks and more of those ridiculous potted plants, and finally, to a pair of simple double doors. 

Cool night air washes over Lance without warning. All the smells of the Blue Lion - the cloying perfume, syrupy alcohol, too-sweet cigarette smoke, and decadent foods - disappear, washed away by the faint scent of lavender. 

Stone steps lead into a garden, which Lance figures is probably impressive in full daylight. Not far away, the skyline hums endlessly, a cocktail of piercing light and sound. Shiro cuts around a sparkling fountain, through a small hedge maze, and all of a sudden, the garden is behind them, and a seemingly endless road stretches in either direction. 

Across the road, a pitch-black shuttle waits, a silhouette leaning casually against it, dark enough to meld into the paint at first glance. 

They approach the shuttle, Shiro flicking his I.D at the still-shadowy chauffeur, and murmuring a few words to no doubt cover for Lance’s presence. The chauffeur must respond in the affirmative, because the shuttle doors swing open silently, untouched. Cologne-tinged air conditioning fills Lance’s lungs. 

Inside, there’s a glass partition separating driver and passenger, and Lance raps it with his knuckles as he slides across the seats. Sure enough, the resounding knock is completely muffled. Soundproof glass. _Perfect_. 

The windows are tinted, too. As soon as Shiro climbs in, the chauffeur takes off. 

“It’s a fifteen minute trip,” Shiro says to Lance, “maybe longer. If the driver suspects we have a tail, he’ll reroute.” 

“I thought you said the Black Lion was easy to get into.” 

“If you have the I.D, yes. Otherwise - well, you can understand why some guests would be desperate.” 

Lance doesn’t really understand, but he’s not about to break the flow of conversation when he’s finally got Shiro talking. 

“About the mission,” he starts instead, but Shiro waves a gloved hand. “No, you’re right,” he says. “I… well, I - “ 

Lance makes himself laugh. “It’s okay, man, I know you don’t remember me from the Garrison.” 

“It’s not just that,” Shiro says, although he looks a little agitated at the topic of his missing memories. “I _don’t_ remember you - or Pidge, or Hunk, or, really, even Keith. But Keith…” 

“He’s mentioned me,” Lance guesses, and the guilty lack of response confirms it. “And - just going out on a limb, here - it’s not entirely flattering.” 

Shiro shrugs helplessly. “What else am I supposed to think? I trust Keith with my life. When he talks about you, it’s not - it’s not as though I have any other options.” 

“You trust him with your life,” Lance repeats hollowly. “Why? I mean, seriously, you guys were close at the Garrison, but - “ He tries to imagine Keith doing something nice for someone, even Shiro, and immediately scraps the idea. “ _Why?_ ” 

“Because he’s the one who - “ 

_Dammit._

The shift is just as imperceptible as earlier, but Lance catches it. A chill in the air. The lines around Shiro’s mouth deepening. 

“You wanted to talk about the mission,” Shiro says flatly. “You’ll need to get into the arena, but if I’m with you, it shouldn’t be a problem. After that, we have to find a way into some kind of maintenance room where you could access the ductwork without anyone noticing. I have the blueprints thanks to Pidge, so I can tell you where to go, but - “ 

“I’ll be fine,” Lance says, masking his frustration. “Just find somewhere to camp out and feed me the directions, and we’ll be good. Right?” 

Shiro gives him a nod that is too brisk to be comforting. “Just out of curiosity,” Lance can’t help asking, “what did Keith do to get caught?” 

“I don’t know exactly. He told _me_ he was going to pickpocket someone while giving them a lap dance, but since he’s posing as a waiter, I have to wonder…” 

Lance pictures Keith saying this to Shiro, and Shiro’s subsequent expression of parental horror, and decides that, all things considered, it’s a pretty comforting thought. A shaft of moonlight sneaks through the tinted shuttle windows and catches Shiro’s eye. He’s not smiling, exactly, but the sentiment’s there.

Something lurches in Lance’s stomach, and despite himself, he looks away. 

Thankfully, the shuttle begins to slow; Shiro buzzes the glass partition down and passes a handful of unidentifiable bills to the driver. When the doors open, Lance catches a whiff of bitter cigar smoke and cologne-soaked sweat. In the distance, a massive crowd roars. 

“Ready?” asks Shiro. 

“Sure,” Lance says.

He follows Shiro, his boots hitting the concrete with a muffled _thump_ \- and just like that, they’re standing in front of the Black Lion’s bloodthirsty arena, the screams of a thousand vicious spectators ringing in their ears. 

\- 

“Stay close to me,” Shiro warns, and Lance nods without thinking twice. 

It’s an ugly place - a Roman coliseum with none of the bread and all of the spectacle. The air is stale, reeking of cigarettes and hard liquor. Guests mill in small clumps, some pushing towards the stadium entrance, others content to trade money, place their bets, size up the competition before entering. 

Galran eyes dart hungrily, dull yellow piercing through a haze of smoke. 

“Please tell me,” Lance mutters, dropping his gaze and falling into step next to Shiro, “that we’re not actually going _inside._ ” 

Shiro winces apologetically. “According to Pidge’s blueprints - “ 

“Which are foolproof,” Pidge interjects loudly in both of their ears, making Lance flinch. He’d forgotten about the communication devices. 

“I’m sure they are,” Shiro says patiently. “The maintenance rooms are partially underground, just like the dorms and holding cells. There’s an entrance near the bathrooms, which are across the arena.” 

“Great,” says Lance. “A walk in the park. What could go wrong?” 

“A freak accident,” Pidge responds helpfully. “Or an earthquake. Or someone recognizing Shiro. Or someone recognizing both of you, and - “ 

“Pidge.” 

“Sorry.” 

But as they head towards the entrance, Lance can’t help sliding another glance at Shiro. “Is that a possibility?” he asks. “Someone knowing who you are?” 

Even in the dim, artificial light, Shiro’s hesitation is palpable. “Maybe,” he says after a moment. “I...can’t be sure.” 

_Because you don’t remember, or because you don’t want to tell me?_ Lance muses, but he keeps that to himself. “Okay,” he says instead. “It’s cool. We’ll be fine.” 

It gets harder to talk the closer they move to the stadium entrance. Lance is beginning to regret his costume choice: most of the people around him look like they’re dressed for a strip club, or a battlefield, or a k-pop concert - or all three. Neon clothes are exacerbated with real, liquid neon; tattoo ink and body paint glow like a beacon. 

Shiro flashes his I.D at security, and Lance puts on a confident grin and follows him through. His eyes adjust slowly to the light - dim, tinged with yellow. He’s aware of the seats sloping up on all sides, the crowd like a single, inky entity, exploding across the arena. 

But he can’t make out the stage until Shiro pushes him forward, through a knot of slow-moving Galrans clad head-to-foot in battle armor, and then the next thing he sees is a massive sword plunging into the chest of a small figure already lying prone against the dirt. 

The victim gives a shudder - once, twice, blood spraying up. Then their body goes limp, one arm still extended towards a spear lying some inches away, legs still twisted in a mockery of running. 

The crowd erupts. 

Bile surges unexpectedly in Lance’s throat, but Shiro’s hand is splayed across his shoulder, pulling him along. On all sides, the crowd is on their feet, still cheering. The warrior in the arena gives a battle cry that wrenches Lance’s chest. 

“Shiro - “ he tries to say, but it’s lost in the din - or so he thinks, until they break into an aisle between seats, and Shiro spins around, and his eyes are _blazing._

And Lance - well, he thinks suddenly about the rumors, about Shiro getting kidnapped, about his Galran arm and the way he respects Keith so goddamned much, and then he keeps thinking about it because he really, really doesn’t want to pay attention to what’s happening around him. 

They move on. The stage is cleared, two figures in white dragging away the dead warrior with a blade still sticking out of his chest. There’s so much blood, it looks fake. The smell is worse: rancid sweat and blisteringly strong alcohol. Lance forces himself to look away. 

There’s an awful, scraping whine- rusted metal hinges - and now the crowd is on their feet again, yelling. Another battle cry echoes from the stage. Bodies hit steel. The crowd presses, hungry for blood. Lance snaps his eyes shut and stumbles over someone’s shoes, and then, just like that, the noise drops away, and Shiro is removing himself from Lance’s shirt. 

He opens his eyes. “That was…” 

Shiro’s expression tells him it would be a good idea to leave that sentence, and everything else they just witnessed, alone. 

The maintenance room is on the other side of the bathrooms, an equally jarring trek, but most of the stalls are unoccupied, and when Shiro leans against the maintenance door it gives easily. “After you,” he says. 

Lance takes a deep breath, hooking his fingers into the strap of his duffel bag. 

A dull, tinny light illuminates the room, which is more like a closet: wall-to-wall cleaning supplies and boxes overflowing with...something in metal cans. The vent for the air ducts is conveniently out of Lance’s reach, on the upper part of the back wall. 

Shiro follows, closing the door. “What’s in the bag?” 

“Makeup,” Lance says. “And clothes. For Keith.” 

He nods distractedly, digging something from his jacket pocket. “Here.” Lance frowns, examining them - four cylindrical objects, clean metal, like Star Trek. “What are they?” 

Shiro pretends not to hear him, and Lance rolls his eyes and slips the cylinders into his duffel. “Okay, Mr. Muscle. You gonna give me a boost, or what?” 

“What about your, uh - “ Shiro gestures vaguely. Lance follows his glance and bites back a curse: he’s still wearing a sweater and jeans over the Blade of Marmora’s armor. “Right.” 

Lance discards the clothes in a messy pile, kicking them to the corner and silently hoping Hunk won’t notice the absence of what looked like a very ratty and threadbare sweater, anyway. He’s also poignantly aware of Shiro watching him, waiting for - God knows what, Lance can’t even guess - but he finishes putting on his boots and turns around. “Good?” 

“If they look closely enough, they’ll know you aren’t Galran,” Shiro says seriously. Lance rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, not all of us get to be superhero ninjas.” 

It’s an uncharacteristic slip, but thankfully, Shiro is smart enough to leave that topic alone. Instead, he says, “Leave your bag, I’ll hand it to you when you’re up,” before lacing his fingers together and settling into a sturdy crouch. Lance removes a small, blinking device from his duffel - concentrated magnet, excellent for cracking air vents, sewer grates, you name it - and steps into the center of Shiro’s hands. 

He knows Shiro is the hired muscle, ex-hitman, current bodyguard, etc, but he doesn’t expect just how _strong_ his grip is. He hoists Lance effortlessly into the air, right in front of the grate. Lance holds his magnet up to the first bolt. It gives easily. 

He’s halfway through when Shiro’s entire body tenses, already strung-up muscles going impossibly tight, and Lance glances down despite himself. “What?” 

In the dull, yellow light, Shiro’s face is greenish-grey. “Footsteps?” 

“Coming?” 

“Think so.” 

Lance curses. He jabs his magnet at the third bolt, and then the fourth. The grate wobbles, beginning to fall forward, but Lance catches it and squats down enough to settle it lightly against the floor. “We’re - “ 

The door bursts open. 

Suddenly, the weight underneath Lance vanishes - but he’s not falling; instead, pushed upwards, and he manages to hook one hand around the bottom edge of the duct. He contorts himself just enough to see Shiro dodge a hard blow, and realizes: Shiro managed to launch him into the air a second before he was surrounded. 

And now Lance is facing the dark, stale, endless expanse of the air duct. 

And he still needs his bag. 

He forces his heart rate down with a herculean effort and climbs into the duct. On the ground, Shiro is still going, one against two, three, _four_ armed Galrans. Their security uniforms are pitch black. Their nightsticks crackle with electricity. 

Lance’s stomach drops. _How did they find us?_

One of the guards takes advantage of Shiro’s distraction and goes for Lance’s duffel. Instinctively, Lance reaches for his revolver and then swears again - it’s _in_ his bag, which means Lance is relying on nothing but Shiro right now. He grits his teeth. “Shiro!” 

The first guard hits the floor, blood welling from his mouth. Shiro dodges the second - for a moment, Lance wonders if he even heard him - before lunging, grabbing Lance’s duffel, and tossing it. Lance leans forward as much as he can, wincing as the bag hits his forearms. “Shiro - “ 

“Go!” The first guard is beginning to stand, yellow eyes pale with fury. 

Lance wants to scream. “I don’t have the map!” 

And for a wonderful, terrible moment, he actually thinks this is what gets him out - that somehow, Shiro is going to agree, like _oh, of course not, I’ll go instead because I do have it, buried somewhere in my incredibly unhelpful brain, and also, as a nice bonus, I’m not absolutely terrified of -_

Shiro knocks his elbow into a guard’s face, spins around, and yells, “Left right straight right right straight left - now _go!_ ” 

And Lance - 

Well, he stops breathing. Or he’s breathing too fast - or both, maybe. But it’s not like he has any other choice. 

So he clamps down on his rising panic, and the bile in his stomach, and the headache already pounding in his temple like church bells - and he goes, as the metallic reek of electricity fills the air behind him, as the distinct crush of metal-against-bone rings in his ears until he’s finally alone, surrounded in near-pitch darkness and metal walls, and feeling just like the fighter in the Black Lion’s arena before a massive sword had pierced his chest. 

\- 

Lance makes it through the first two intersections before his arms give out, and his shoulder hits the floor. 

His heart is thudding behind his ribcage, painfully hard. 

Black spots dance behind his eyes. 

He’s going to die. 

He’s almost positive of this fact, less like fear and more like an imminent realization or possibly even an undisputed fact. Like: this job was a bad idea. Like: Lance should’ve taken his chances making a run for it. He’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to die. 

Okay. 

So, yeah, Lance is claustrophobic. What else is new? 

He knows from experience that the first swell of panic is the worst, that he just has to ride it out, stay afloat, stay breathing. And sure enough, after a moment, the knot in his stomach begins to ease. But now the inevitability of his situation is sinking in, cramping his limbs, keeping him locked in fetal position against the ground, embarrassingly helpless even if there’s no one around to witness it. 

Lance raises a shaking hand to his earpiece. “Shiro?” 

No answer. 

Great. 

“Hunk? Pidge?” He listens to his own soundwaves crackle into nothingness, and the silence, the _waiting,_ is definitely not helping. “Allura?” 

“You know, the fact that I’m your last resort makes me that much less inclined to help.” 

And...of course. Lance would close his eyes, if they weren’t already closed. 

Of fucking course it’s Keith. 

“I don’t need your - “ 

“You’re claustrophobic,” Keith notes calmly, and Lance wants to commit either homicide or suicide, he’s not particularly picky. “Good to know.” 

“Just tell me where to go.” 

“Ah, no can do, McClain. I don’t have the blueprints, and my guards will be coming back any minute.” 

Lance frowns. “How do you still have an earpiece?” 

“Trust me, some things you don’t want to know.” 

“Well, if you’re not going to be helpful, would you mind shutting the fuck up and letting me focus?” 

Keith laughs - actually _laughs,_ and - 

Huh. It’s so irritating and pointless and so much like _Keith_ that Lance finds he’s feeling a little better. He opens his eyes, swallows down a brief surge of nausea at the sight of blank metal walls, and pushes himself from the floor. 

“I kind of think you’re forgetting,” Keith says, “which one of us is the claustrophobic grifter, and which one is the professional thief.” 

“Yeah, and I kind of think you’re forgetting which one of us is sitting in a prison cell, and which one is - “ 

“Do you want my help, or not?” 

“I don’t know, do you want to rot in the basement of the fucking Coliseum?” 

Keith goes silent for so long, Lance wonders if his guards came back. Then, almost in a rush: “What happened to Shiro?” 

“He’s a little tied up at the moment. Trust me, I’d rather be talking to him.” 

“I’ll take the compliment. Wait, so why didn’t he just tell you the directions? I know Shiro, and he’s not stupid, he would’ve - “ 

Lance takes a slow breath. “He did.” 

“Seriously?” Keith’s voice pitches painfully loud. “What the fuck, McClain, are you waiting for an invitation? Get off your ass and come get me!” 

This is about the last conversation Lance wants to have with Keith - or anyone, really - but he grits his teeth. “You already figured it out once, I’m sure you can do it again.” 

“You don’t - “ 

Yeah, there it is. 

Lance does some deep breath meditation yoga shit he picked up from a psychotherapist back at the Garrison while he waits for Keith to keep bitching, or yell at him, or come up with some stupid snarky insult that will make Lance want to kill him all the more. 

“They’re coming,” Keith says finally. “Keep going or don’t. But one way or another, this job is getting done, and I’d rather have your help than nothing at all.” 

-

Lance doesn’t need anyone to tell him he’s a good grifter. Doesn’t need anyone to congratulate him on surviving, on building a life out of nothing, on excelling at a trade he had to teach to himself. 

The thing about grifting is that it’s not just acting. It’s watching every imperceptible twitch, listening for every verbal cadence and inflection; adapting to every situation no matter how unpredictable. It’s blocking out your own fears and wants and taking on someone else’s. 

The fact that Keith did something Lance couldn’t predict speaks volumes. Okay, so maybe it had happened before, with the knife and the kitchen and a lot of impulsive decisions. But hours have passed since then. Lance has done some thinking. 

Moments ago, Keith had a perfect opportunity to take Lance’s weakness and do - literally - whatever he wanted with it. Sabotage, blackmail. His specialty: verbal attacks. Stoking his own ego. The options were endless. 

Instead, he said something that might actually be construed as comforting.

Something that gave Lance an idea. 

Yeah, he‘ll keep going. He’ll get Keith out of the prison cell and do his makeup and change his hair because that’s the job he was assigned to do. Then he’ll invent some subtle way to bring up the fact - which isn’t really a lie - that Keith calmed him down from his panic attack in the air ducts. 

He’ll be exactly what Keith wants: loyal, cooperative, clever. 

He’ll find a way into Keith’s head. Into his goddamned twisted shriveled _heart_ if necessary. 

And he’ll do it so fucking well Keith’ll have no idea what kind of game Lance is playing until the handcuffs are snapping around his traitorous Galran wrists. 

It’s a pretty good plan, all things considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you guys tell i'm getting all my plot points from leverage or


	8. Chapter 8

Lance lies flat on his stomach, staring as hard as he can at Keith. 

He honestly can’t tell if Keith is being deliberately unhelpful - even in the middle of a rescue mission, Lance wouldn’t put it past him - or maybe he’s just that fucking oblivious. Either way, Lance has been here for so long that the metal underneath his chest is growing uncomfortably warm. 

From what he can see, Keith’s holding cell is miserably cramped. A disturbingly crimson light strip runs across the cracked ceiling. Against the back wall, there’s a stone bench carrying the weight of one very disgruntled thief, whose head is somewhere close to his knees. Not only is he avoiding Lance, but he’s also ignoring his guards: two stony Galrans positioned somewhere in front of the cell door. 

Lance glares harder. 

Finally - fucking _finally_ \- Keith glances up. 

He looks like shit, handcuffed and pissed off in a partially shredded Red Lion uniform, and Lance smiles and waves, which is probably an imperceptible movement through the latticework of the vent. But Keith’s eyes narrow anyway. Maybe it’s just a natural reaction for him. 

Keith drops his gaze again. “Hey,” he says, and yeah, he sounds like shit, too. “You guys, uh, come here.” 

Lance snorts. _Great start._

The guards standing somewhere beneath Lance don’t respond, obviously well-trained to deal with drunken rambling or weird seduction attempts or whatever the hell normal prisoners try and pull. Keith blows out a very visible breath, and despite everything, Lance smirks. _Terrible grifter._

A second later, though, he realizes that, barring a distraction, he actually has no plan to bust through the ventilation shaft without alerting the guards, and he sees Keith come to the same realization as well, a smug smile crawling across his face. One eyebrow arches as if to sneer, _Terrible thief, huh?_

_Well, if you would just cooperate,_ Lance tries to communicate with various facial expressions, _and distract them, we wouldn’t be having this problem._

_Oh, so it’s my fault?_ Or possibly: _I have no idea what you’re saying but I’m assuming it’s an insult._

_Fine._ Lance grits his teeth. _I’ll do it myself._

But before he can do anything, Keith clears his throat, cracks his neck as best he can while wearing handcuffs, and says, “You know I’m wired, right?” 

Lance does his very, very best not to facepalm. 

Incredibly, though, it works: the guards commit what is probably Galran high treason and leave their post, even if it’s just a couple of steps, coming into full view in the center of the cell. They’re not heavily armored, Lance notes, but equipped with full holsters and probably some other nasty surprises. 

“He’s bluffing,” one of the guards mutters. Both of them look at Keith. “Say that again, prisoner.” 

Keith’s smile is _blistering._ “I said,” he repeats slowly, as if talking to a particularly minute-brained species, “I’m still wearing a wire because _you_ idiots forgot to search me.” 

“We did search you,” the first guard argues. Keith snorts. “You call that a search? Ah, never mind. I’ve cracked a hundred prison cells tougher than _this_.” 

It’s cocky, and smarmy, and absolutely infuriating - but most of all, it _works,_ and Lance grits his teeth and hates Keith Kogane and gets to work. There’s only a matter of time before the guards find Keith’s earpiece and start asking dangerous questions he won’t be able to answer. 

The magnetic device Lance used to open the grate earlier is still clenched in his fist. It’s double-sided, the other end protruding outwards like a screwdriver, with two spindly metal legs folded around each other. He holds it up to the corner of the grate, where the butt of a screw pokes out imperceptibly. The legs extend like insect antennae, searching; then they wrap around the small piece of metal and begin to turn, humming softly. 

Below him, the guards have finally found Keith’s earpiece. _Don’t say anything stupid,_ Lance prays silently as the first screw loosens and he moves onto the next. 

“Are there others?” the guard demands. Twitchy fingers - not a good sign, probably _thisclose_ to raising the alarm. “Who are you conspiring with?” 

_C’mon Keith, don’t say anything -_

“Oh, nobody,” Keith says, sleazy smile burning straight through his voice, “except the Blade of Marmora, that is.” 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

Lance can _see_ when the realization sets in, two sets of shoulders tightening, bodies caught in a halfway-turn - but they’re too late, thank God, as Lance loosens the final screw and slams his palms as hard as he can against the grate. 

It clips the first guard as it falls, narrowly avoids the second, and seriously surprises both. Lance plunges a hand blindly into his duffel, closes his fingers around the cold, familiar metal of his revolver, and aims. Before the guards can recover, he fires off two well-placed shots. 

And just like that, it’s over. Two bodies hit the floor with identical solid _thumps._

Lance takes a deep breath, adrenaline still crashing through his veins. He tucks his revolver away and jumps gingerly from the vent. The bodies are sprawled nearby, unmoving. The bullets, loaded with a heavy tranquilizer, are slotted neatly into their shoulders. Poor guys didn’t even have enough time to register what was going on. 

“You took forever,” notes Keith. “You’re a terrible thief. And you’re wearing _my_ armor.” 

Typical. Lance rolls his eyes and stands up. “Yeah, and you’re the worst fucking grifter I’ve ever seen. Those idiots were about two seconds away from calling up their boss and telling him about the Marmora traitor they had trussed in their basement.” 

“Well, thank God you defeated the formidable air vent in time, then,” retorts Keith sarcastically. “Do you want a trophy?” 

“I want to get this over with,” Lance mutters. He nudges the two guards aside and drops his duffel. “How much time until the next round shows up?” 

“Thirty minutes, give or take.” Keith arches an eyebrow and gestures at his handcuffed wrists. “Do you mind?” 

_Yeah, actually, I do,_ Lance thinks, but he starts to crouch next to the guards again. “Hey, I don’t see - “ 

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s not there,” Keith snorts. _Asshole._ “Keys are for the wardens only, and who knows where they are. I meant do you mind turning _around._ I really don’t like doing this in front of other people.” 

After all the shit he’s been through tonight, Lance is honestly kind of intrigued about anything that could make Keith Kogane uncomfortable, but all he says is: “Too bad, mullet. I have to cart your ass across the Black Lion, I wanna see a magic trick first.” He’s even more surprised by the fact that Keith doesn’t even argue. “Suit yourself,” he responds instead, shrugging. 

Then he tips his head back and makes a sound like a cat coughing up a hairball. 

And that is definitely _not_ what Lance was expecting. 

It would almost be funny, except it just sounds painful: Keith’s throat contracting visibly, tendons and veins jutting out in sharp relief. The sound echoes violently, raw and harsh - until Keith suddenly sits forward again, with a small silver lockpick in the center of his palm. 

Despite himself, Lance’s eyes widen. “That was - “ 

“Disgusting?” 

“Impressive,” he admits. “But I’m not touching it.” 

“Don’t need to.” Keith finagles the key between his fingers and works it into the handcuff’s lock. Within a few seconds, the cuffs spring free. He stands up, rubbing his wrists, and then shoots Lance a piercing glare from underneath his bangs. “Well?” 

Lance glares back, moment of weakness dissipated. “Sit your ass back down, Kogane. I’ve got a lot of work to do and about twenty-five minutes to do it in. You’re lucky I’m a fucking professional.” 

Naturally, Keith starts to object, but Lance ignores him and unzips his duffel. The first thing he grabs is a pile of clothes. “Strip.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Your clothes make you look like a Halloween party stripper,” Lance says flatly. He adds a pack of makeup wipes and holds out the pile. “It’s the first thing any self-respecting security guard would notice. So take ‘em off, _cariño_.” 

The fiery glare Lance receives for this comment is well worth it. 

While Keith carefully removes his shredded costume and smudged makeup, Lance pulls a couple more things from his duffel: a stack of palettes, a handful of brushes, and a pair of colored contacts. When he turns around, Keith is sitting on the stone bench wearing a cropped red jacket, black jeans, and a very disgusted scowl. 

“For the record,” he says, “I hate this.” 

“Yeah, and wasn’t it your lapdog preaching about how we all needed to hold hands and cooperate?” Lance holds out the contacts. “Put these in.” 

“I meant the _clothes,_ asshole. And are you sure you know what you’re doing?” 

Lance doesn’t waste precious time arguing. Instead, he waits for Keith to look back up at him with shockingly green eyes before popping open a palette of bronzer. “Hold still and close your eyes, mullet.” Twenty minutes is a shitty amount of time to completely alter someone’s face, but luckily, Lance doesn’t need to make Keith look like a different person. He just needs to make him look like not himself. 

From a strictly technical point of view, Keith’s facial structure is uniquely angular: high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, a sharp jawline. Any makeup artist’s dream, really. In any other circumstance, Lance would - 

Nope. No. _Stop that._

He’s always had a bad habit of slipping too deeply into the characters he portrays. 

Lance forces himself to focus on making Keith’s face rounder, his jaw broader, his cheekbones less prominent. After a little over fifteen minutes, he sits back, casting a critical eye over his work. Then he nods and starts putting his materials away. “Good enough.” 

Keith frowns. “You’re staking my life on _good enough?_ ” 

“Got a problem with that?” Lance grabs one of his compact mirrors and offers it. “See for yourself, if you don’t believe me.” He watches Keith flick the mirror open and hold it up to his face. And - 

His face does something weird. Well, weirder than normal, anyway. 

_Like, really fucking weird._

They’re on a tight schedule, but Lance stops cleaning up and glares at him. “What?” 

“It’s…” Keith raises a hand to his own cheek, and for second, he looks - God, if Lance didn’t know him, he’d say Keith Kogane actually looked _impressed._

Unfortunately, he does know Keith. 

“Pull back your hair,” is all Lance says as he zips his duffel and slings it over his shoulder. “And hope we don’t run into anyone who recognizes you. Also, I’m gonna need another boost to get back in that air duct.” 

“Hold on, grifter.” Whatever was going on with his face, Keith recovers quickly. He tosses Lance the compact mirror and stands up, kicking at one of the fallen guards. “Shiro gave you the medic pods, right?” 

“The weird cylinder things?” 

“Medic pods,” Keith says again, slowly, like Lance is an idiot. “To resuscitate the guards?” 

“Right.” Lance frowns. “How do you know about those?” 

Keith gives him a look like _I can’t believe I might have been kind of impressed by your makeup skills, like, two seconds ago._ “Didn’t Shiro go over the details with you?” 

“He was a little busy being pissed off at my existence.” Lance’s brain splits in half, one side focused on carrying the conversation with Keith, the other scrambling to add another piece to a puzzle he’s really starting to dislike. “But yeah, I got the gist.”

Footsteps are echoing down the hallway outside of the cell. Lance hands Keith his duffel bag, and Keith tosses it into the open duct. Then he looks back and smirks when he sees Lance begin to crouch down, the way Shiro had for him. “I don’t need that.” 

“Show-off.” 

Keith takes a couple steps back, rocking on the balls of his feet. He does it a couple times - forward, back, forward, back - and then he _sprints,_ two long strides straight at the wall. And then he’s kicking _off_ the wall, a foot off the ground - and then his hand is on the ledge of the vent, and he’s pulling himself up. 

Lance just rolls his eyes and grabs the medic pods. They’re kind of like Epi-pens, he thinks, and he sticks one into the first guard’s shoulder and presses the release button at the top. 

In the air duct, Keith has twisted himself around so he’s facing Lance. “I can pull you up,” Keith says. “Probably.” 

“You’re staking my life on _probably?_ ” 

Keith’s lips twitch. “Just give me your hand.” 

“Buy me dinner first?” 

“ _Lance._ ” 

“Okay, okay. Jeez.” On the floor, the guards are finally stirring. The footsteps outside are getting closer. Lance stands on tip-toe and grabs Keith’s proffered hand. “Are you sure you can do this?” 

He wishes he hadn’t said that, because Keith smiles like he’s this close to unhinging his jaw and biting Lance’s head off, or something equally anatomically gruesome - and, just like that, three things happen very quickly. 

One: the cell door cracks open, and then _slams_ open, as the new guards realize exactly what is going on. 

Two: the guards on the floor re-discover their fine motor skills and stagger upright, hands going to holsters and hidden knives and all other kinds of terrifying, bloodthirsty hell as they lunge towards Lance. 

And three: Lance squeezes his eyes shut and is absolutely positive that he is going to die like this, four Galran prison guards pulling at his legs like a fucking wind tunnel - and then, okay, maybe he cheated a little, because there is a fourth thing, and it’s Keith’s hand closing hard around his wrist, pulling him into the vent and dragging him forward, back into the stale darkness, but farther and farther away from the anger of an entire empire raging against the Blade of Marmora traitors who dare to usurp the Castle of Lions. 

But hey, at least he knows the ruse is working. 

\- 

Keith must be a mole rat, or something, because he navigates the ducts in record time. Lance breathes in the sterile bleach and lingering dust of the Black Lion’s maintenance room, and thinks he’s never been so glad to see waxy, flickering light strips and a handful of questionable cleaning supplies. 

Keith jumps from the vent and lands like a cat. Lance follows, significantly less graceful. Apart from the clothes he’d left in the corner, and all the storage equipment, there’s no sign of Shiro or the guards he’d been fighting. 

“Where is he?” Lance asks, pulling the sweater over his head. 

“Awfully concerned about him, aren’t you?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Now that they’re out of immediate danger, the old Keith is back: pissy, uptight, and snarky as all hell. Lance squashes the urge to shoot him a death glare and finishes getting dressed. 

In actuality, though, he’s getting disturbingly close to finishing the puzzle. Keith’s eerie composure is just one more piece: if Shiro were in any danger, God knows Keith’d be ripping the walls apart. So both of them are in on it - whatever _it_ is - but Lance hasn’t been wrong yet. 

“Let’s go,” he says abruptly. The bathroom outside the maintenance closet is still deserted, and when Lance pushes the door open, there’s not a horde of bloodthirsty Galra waiting to rip him limb-from-limb. 

Instead, there’s Shiro, wearing a security guard’s uniform and his ever-present black gloves. 

Lance nods at him. “How’s the search going?” 

“They think you went to the Green Lion,” Shiro responds. “There’s nothing worth stealing here. Even so, they’ve blocked off the entrances and set up a perimeter along with their normal defenses.” 

“Cool.” 

Keith peeks around both of them, down the narrow, concrete hall, to where the stadium opens up. “If we - “  


“Nuh uh, Kogane. You had your spotlight moment.” Lance cracks all of his knuckles individually before handing his duffel to Shiro. “This is my game now. So, big man, you scouted the Black Lion earlier - what’s their normal security like?” 

Shiro hesitates, glancing between Lance and Keith. Obviously he’s indebted to Keith, but Lance has the upper hand, and if there’s one thing both of them have to respect, it’s skill.

Finally, Keith rolls his eyes and leans against the wall, arms folded. “Go ahead.” 

“There’s a certain number of waiters assigned to each section of the stands,” Shiro explains. “All of them are trained in some form of combat, mostly to defend against unruly crowds, but they could easily handle a more direct threat. Genuine security guards are less common, and easier to avoid, but a couple will still be patrolling the front aisle.” 

“And they all have our descriptions,” Lance says. Shiro nods. “Well, this is gonna be _so_ much fun. You should probably get going, you know, give me and Mr. Angst over here a decent head start.” 

“It’s not a good idea to split up,” Shiro warns. “I have a badge that could get the three of us through the front gate without any problems.” 

“Yeah, and do you know how suspicious it’s gonna look if a security guard is chaperoning two non-prisoners through the stadium? Listen, I know you two are all lone wolf about this, but this is kind of, you know, my fucking _job,_ and I’ve got it covered.” 

For the second time, Shiro glances at Keith, but now there’s no hesitation from the latter - just a noncommittal shrug and a muttered “yeah, sure, whatever.” 

Which Lance will take as a step up. 

He waits for Shiro to disappear around the corner of the hallway before turning to Keith. “Okay, _cariño_ , listen up. I disguised your face, but it’s not perfect, so you’re gonna have to pull your weight a little. Just do as I say, and we’ll be fine.” 

“What about your face?” 

“Excuse me?” 

Keith makes a vague gesture, like _you know._ “They’re going to have your description, too, and you’re not wearing any makeup.” 

“He does care!” Lance winks as Keith’s expression morphs into something half-disgusted, half-indignant. “Don’t worry, my young padawan, I’ll be fine. Now let’s get moving before somebody realizes this hallway is a perfect hiding place.” 

He can tell Keith trusts this plan about as much as he’d trust a loaded grenade, but Lance feels surprisingly calm. He runs a quick hand through his hair, tosses a casual arm around Keith’s shoulders, and heads down the corridor until the Black Lion’s arena opens up in front of them. 

There’s another match going on, and the crowd is hysterical. Tall rows of crude cement bleachers sprawl endlessly on either side, a vast sea of writhing bodies, and the narrow aisles are choked with screaming spectators. Waiters twirl delicately between obstacles, bottles and thin-stemmed glasses aloft. Security is even harder to spot: their black clothes blend right in, and everything is tinted blood-red underneath the dull crimson lights. 

“This is barbaric,” Keith hisses, straight into Lance’s ear. “What are we - hey!” 

Lance tugs him forward, down the main aisle, where only a thin wire fence and a twenty foot drop separate them from the gruesome battle on the sand below. There’s a waiter coming straight at them, unavoidable. Lance raises a hand. “Over here!” 

Keith squeaks like a trampled mouse, but the waiter squeezes between two massive humanoids and appears in front of them, bowing. Their nametag reads: EGO. 

“It’s about time,” Lance complains. He has to half-shout over the noise of the crowd. “Is your name really Ego?” 

“My apologies, sir,” the waiter responds smoothly, unfazed. “Only a nickname, sir.” 

Right. Who would want to use their real name when they’re selling black market liquor? “What’ve you got?” Lance says, nodding at their bottle. 

“A special selection from the Bacchus System, sir. It has a light, fruity taste with a - “ 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Lance rolls his hand in the universal _move on_ gesture before leaning in. “What’s the percent?” 

“About fifty-five, sir.” 

“Awesome! I’ll take two.” 

“Very good, sir. Would you like to start a tab?” 

“Huh? Oh, I don’t think so - “ and here, Lance slides his arm from Keith’s shoulders to around his waist and squeezes just hard enough to pull Keith flush against his hip. “I don’t think I’ll be sticking around, if you know what I mean.” 

“Very good, sir,” the waiter says again, serene as ever. 

Lance vigorously thanks his past self for remembering to tuck cash into his duffel, and he manages to pull some out like it’s one of a hundred fat stacks of bills, rather than a smattering of spare change. The waiter hands him two glasses bubbling with a thin pink liquid, bows, and moves on. 

Lance starts to move, too, but before he can, Keith’s fingers are digging into his side, dangerously close to the still-tender gash on Lance’s stomach. 

“What,” he begins hotly, “the _hell_ do you think you’re - “ 

“Shut up and start walking, mullet, and try to look like you’re drunk and horny. I’ll tell you later.” 

The fact that they’re still in enemy territory, and - as far as Keith knows - entirely vulnerable, is enough to make him release Lance, but he doesn’t push away entirely. 

“Stick to my side,” Lance mutters in his ear. He runs a hand through Keith’s hair despite the latter’s protests, dislodging a couple flyway strands. “And take a couple sips. Don’t wrinkle your nose, this was expensive shit. Now let’s go.” 

It only takes a minute, maybe two, before the obvious is realized. No more waiters accost them; the security guards, what few are patrolling the aisles, become laughingly easy to avoid. Lance stumbles through the crowd, all over-loud _sorrys_ and _’scuse me’s_ , and just like that, he’s through the entrance gate, clinging to Keith like a lover drunk on moonshine. 

They’re out. 

As soon as the coast is clear, Keith yanks himself free, turning on Lance. His eyes are blazing. “What the fuck was that, McClain?” 

“It’s called grifting, mullet, maybe you’ve heard of it.” 

“That was _not_ \- “ 

“Yeah, actually, it was.” Lance is thoroughly enjoying this, every word a sniper’s bullet, aimed to kill. “Why would two prison escapees make a pit stop for liquor? It’d be pointless, not to mention dangerous as hell, since every waiter knows their face. Unless, of course, one of those escapees is wearing makeup, and the other is a professional grifter instead of a Blade of Marmora what-have-you.” 

“I don’t - “ 

“No, of course you don’t, ‘cause you think I sit around all day and flutter my eyelashes. Since we both had drinks, waiters automatically discounted us as potential customers. They weren’t even looking twice. And security assumed everything I just told you, that no sane jailbirds would grab a bottle on their way out.” 

“None of that explains why you had to put your fucking hands all over me,” Keith snaps. 

Lance sighs. “You really don’t get it, huh? It’s the best excuse for not starting up a tab, plus it got us through the front gates with no problem. Nobody wants to be that guy holding up a horny drunk couple on their way to the bedroom.” 

“But - “ There’s nothing left to argue, though. Finally, Keith drops his eyes to the floor. “The waiter. They looked at you right in the face. Why didn’t he recognize you?” 

There’s a saying among grifters. Well, it’s more like a reputation, the highest compliment someone can pay you. The ability to look the same person in the eyes every day for a year, yet they never once recognize you. 

Tires squeak lightly across the smooth cement floor. The sound reverberates a million times over, bouncing off the high ceiling, crawling up the low, dimly-lit tunnel - the Black Lion’s only entrance/exit. 

“Shiro’s here,” Lance says. “Time to head back.” 

Before he gets in the car, Lance checks his watch and realizes with a strange shock that it’s only three in the morning. He feels like he’s been here forever. 

And the real fun hasn’t even started yet. 

\- 

“I figured out your plan,” is the first thing Lance says when he walks into the main room of their suite. 

Allura is sitting on the futon where Pidge was earlier, sorting through a stack of papers. She doesn’t look up. “Oh?” 

“You told Pidge to send an anonymous tip,” Lance says, “alerting security that someone was using the Black Lion’s maintenance room for unknown purposes. That’s why security guards arrived even before I got into the air ducts. Shiro needed one of their uniforms so he could keep others away from the maintenance room after the real alarm was raised. And you told Keith about it, just in case I forgot the directions through the duct system.” 

He’s going out on a limb here, but he adds: “You knew Keith and I have trouble working together - “ 

“That’s a mild way of putting it,” Keith mutters. 

“ - so you forced me to rely on him. You didn’t know I was claustrophobic, but you figured a grifter wasn’t going to have experience crawling through air vents. You played me. So, I just want to know: what’s stopping you from doing the same to anyone else in this room?” 

Finally, Allura glances up. Moonlight dances coldly across her face. 

“Nothing, Lance,” she replies. “How astute of you to notice.” 

“But there’s no other alternative except to trust you, right?” 

“Correct as well. Now, if you, Shiro, and Keith are all here, I have a few matters to discuss, beginning with - “ 

“Oh, but I’m not finished,” Lance says. “Earlier, you made the choice to stake out Shiro in the Black Lion. But first, you had to dress him up and even dye his hair for a two hour surveillance mission. That’s a lot of caution, isn’t it?” 

Lance doesn’t reveal all of his secrets, but he knows it’s enough to prove he’s exactly as good as he says. “So here’s my guess: 

“Takashi Shirogane vanished from the Garrison during a mission. En route, he was captured by the Galra Empire and sent to the Black Lion to fight for the crown’s entertainment. He was injured during a fight, lost his arm, and had it replaced by Galran technology. Then he was rescued by Keith Kogane with no memories of what had happened before the Garrison’s mission.” 

God, he wants so badly to look at Keith and Shiro right now, but he keeps his gaze locked on Allura’s stone-cold face. 

She folds her arms. “What is your point, Lance?” 

“Well, I’m glad you asked! My point is that you’ve already framed the Blade of Marmora for Keith’s rescue, in hopes of diverting the Castle’s security to them rather than us. We all know that because you told us earlier. But you’ve also been pretty fixated on the Black Lion. So here’s my next trick.” 

The room is silent. 

“You plan to create a false trail of information, a red herring, that suggests the Blade has brought Shiro back to the Black Lion’s arena to fight, knowing a spectacle like that will undoubtedly grab Prince Lotor’s attention. Castle security, of course, will assume that’s a ruse to capture Lotor while he’s vulnerable in the Black Lion. They’ll transport Lotor off-moon until the Blade, and Shiro, are captured. From there, provided we can access the Green Lion’s database, it’ll be easy enough to hijack the transport ship and divert Lotor’s course.” 

The finer details are muddy, of course, but even before he finishes, Lance knows he’s almost won. But he’s still holding on to one last card. 

Allura brings her hands together in a resounding clap. The sound echoes like a gunshot through the silent room. “I would expect nothing better from you, Lance.” 

“Wait a second.” Keith had been God-knows-where, probably lurking behind Lance’s shoulder, but now he steps forward, half-silhouetted in moonlight, halfway dissolved into inky shadow. “If that’s true, how does Shiro escape?” 

“Well, considering the Blade is a decoy,” Lance says, “it’ll never have to escape to begin with. But Shiro’s existence is pretty real. And there’s a nice price on his head, too. Isn’t that right, Allura?” 

And here it is. 

The final piece of the puzzle. 

“The technology used to create Shiro’s arm can be tracked,” Allura says. “He’s been on the run for some time. In lieu of continuing that life, and for the sake of our mission, he has agreed to stay behind.” 

\- 

Pidge pulls away from the tiny recording device pressed against their ear. 

“Yeah, he got it,” they call out, and Hunk appears in the doorway, a tangle of wires and surveillance tech in hand. “Well, most of it, anyway. Still a lot better than I could’ve done.” 

“I feel terrible lying to him.” 

“Yeah, but come on. We’re the last people he suspects. Plus, I like to think of this as the best-case scenario. He could do a lot worse, you know.” 

“What about Keith?” 

“Huh? Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ve got him covered. It’ll be fun!” Pidge’s piranha grin isn’t exactly reassuring, underneath huge, overcaffeinated eyes exacerbated by the promise of a challenge. “For old times’ sake, right?” 

“Something like that,” agrees Hunk morosely. “Alright, Pidge. Back to work.” 

He disappears down the hall, and Pidge spins their chair back around to face a glowing screen of text and symbols. 

Now, _finally,_ the real fun is starting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo how's quarantine going for you guys?? 
> 
> i honestly feel like we're in the backstory for every dystopian novel setting ever and.....what am i doing?? writing 5k words of two dudes and their extreme sexual tension??? on the bright side i have so much time since everything's all online classes and whatnot so hypothetically i should be updating pretty frequently but.....who knows! it's a crazy world we're living in.... 
> 
> BUT all of your comments are so sweet and wonderful and a much needed bright spot, and i will do my very best to keep writing for you! we'll all get through this somehow so wash your hands and stay safe out there kiddos


	9. Chapter 9

3:30 A.M. 

The emergency broadcast appears on their holoscreen - the massive one set up in the living room. Pidge is the first to see it, probably because they’d been waiting for it. Lance is next, overhearing an exuberant _yes!_ while he’s getting dressed (again), and deciding to check it out. 

He finds Pidge sprawled across the futon, drenched in moonlight, while a flute of something pale and bubbly leans in one hand. 

“Uh, Pidge, are you - “ 

They wave at him distractedly without looking up, so Lance rolls his eyes and sits down. Onscreen, an older Galra woman is gesticulating wildly: 

“ - warning that _all guests_ should maintain caution as they enjoy the Castle’s amenities. Because we are unable to discern the severity of this threat, we have also temporarily restricted access to the Green Lion. We apologize for any disturbances, but we must reiterate that _all guests_ should - “ 

“Let me guess,” Lance says. “You did that.” 

Pidge tips their head, a satisfied grin stretched wide across their mouth. “Me and Hunk, yeah. This exact message is broadcasting in every suite, at every bar, on every holoscreen in the entire Castle of Lions.” 

“Well, no one fucks shit up as well as you guys.” 

“Right? We figured out the frequency levels for the security guards’ communication devices, so all we did was patch in a couple messages about Blade of Marmora sightings. Now they’re sending out squads and shutting down the whole Green Lion.” Pidge cackles. “Complete overkill if you ask me.” 

“Hey, Allura says you guys have to stop celebrating,” Hunk announces. He knocks on the doorframe, a bit belatedly. “We’re packing up in a few minutes.” 

“Eh, my stuff’s already upstairs. Hey, Hunk, you should get me a refill!” 

“Shit, mine’s not,” Lance realizes, getting to his feet. “Don’t leave without me, got it? I’m not climbing through any windows.” 

The lack of response is _so_ encouraging, but Lance doesn’t exactly have the time to stick around. Except, not for the reason he gave Pidge and Hunk. 

He heads to his room, double-checks it briefly for loose contact cases or spare brushes, then goes into the adjoining bathroom between his and Keith’s rooms. Sure enough, the door on the other end is shut tight. 

_Perfect_. 

From where he’s standing, though, Lance can’t make out the exact words, so he creeps quietly up to the door and presses his head against the wall next to the frame - and yeah, there’s Shiro’s voice, deliberately calm until - 

“should’ve _told_ me, why didn’t you? What the hell made you think the best possible option was to just - just give up?” 

“I’m not giving up, Keith.” 

“Yeah?” He snorts derisively - or, at least, Lance assumes he does, because that seems like a very Keith thing to do right then. “Well, it sure sounds like it to me.” 

“I told you, I don’t - “ 

“And why do you trust Allura so much, anyway? Why would you make a deal with _her,_ of all people?” 

“I trust her,” Shiro says firmly, “because of what you’re doing right now. You weren’t supposed to find out. If Lance hadn’t - “ 

“Oh, sure, let’s bring _Lance_ back into this, that’s a great idea.” The amount of rage, barely contained, inside his own name is staggering. Keith doesn’t just say it - he spits it, loaded with venom. 

“I thought you wanted to forget about the Garrison.” 

“Yeah, well not all of us are lucky enough to be amnesiacs.” _Ouch._ “So what about the Garrison? I’m not a fucking kid any more, and neither is he.” 

“But you’re still angry at him because he figured out Allura’s plan and you didn’t,” Shiro points out. 

Lance can’t help raising his eyebrows. If that’s true… 

“Forget him,” Keith snaps. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“It does to me.” 

“That’s nice, Shiro, but don’t try to sound like a greeting card when you’re planning on walking the plank.” 

“Keith, I don’t want you to - “ 

“I told you to forget it!” Keith sighs, and Lance can imagine him pacing circles around his bedroom like a vulture, desperate to land. “I can’t even understand _why_ it had to be him - all of them - in the first place. We could’ve been galaxies apart for the rest of our lives, never running into each other again - and instead, four years later, we’re back in the mess.” 

“Allura didn’t deliberately - “ 

“She _says_ she didn’t. Come on, Shiro, just tell me why you trust her so goddamn much. It’s driving me crazy.” 

“To be honest, I don’t really know. But I do know she’s the only one of us who can see the whole picture. Whatever else you think you’ve figured out - or whatever Lance thinks, or the other two, Pidge and Hunk - you’re all missing important details. And - “ Shiro’s voice softens slightly, almost paternal - “the Blade trusts her, too.” 

It’s a conversational checkmate, but Keith sounds far from satisfied. “You know I’m going to do everything I can to get you out.” 

“I figured as much.” 

They fall silent, and Lance backs away from the door, his head whirling. He had assumed Keith and Shiro would argue, given the nature of their relationship and Keith’s very recent - and abrupt - introduction to some very delicate information - but Lance hadn’t predicted his own presence in the middle of it. 

Interesting. 

Someone is knocking on his door, and after a moment, Lance shakes himself out of his stupor and goes to answer it. He finds Allura, standing in the hallway with her arms folded like she knows exactly what he’s been up to. 

“If you’re packed,” she says, “you should help Hunk with setting up the decoy information.”

“Right.” 

“And the surveillance cameras.” 

“Don’t you think that’s a tad dramatic?” 

“On the contrary.” She’s been frosty ever since he figured out her master plan. “I’ll be able to monitor the guards and make sure they find Hunk’s evidence leading them to Shiro and the Blade.” 

“Right. You get to watch T.V while the rest of us do your dirty work.” 

“Precisely, Lance.” She smiles at him, and it looks like a death wish. “I’m glad you’re finally beginning to understand.” 

\- 

3:45 A.M. 

Hunk unlocks the door to their new suite. 

It’s only two floors above the old one, so Lance doesn’t expect much of a difference. A better view, maybe. More complimentary snacks in the kitchen. 

He walks into the hallway and his jaw drops. 

Yeah, it’s a little large,” Pidge says, edging around him, their arms full of surveillance equipment. “There’s a ton of bedrooms, too, so you can take your pick.” 

_A little large_ is a massive understatement. The short hallway opens into a vast living room, exquisitely furnished. A small staircase leads to a pool at the back of the room, overlooking a set of floor-to-ceiling windows. More hallways branch deeper into the suite, lined with doors. The night sky, thick and velvet, glitters with light from the Lions below, and the pool water glows deep violet, splashing across the walls.

The room has obviously been Pidge-ified, though. Their laptop sits open on a table in front of the couch. The holoscreen that obscures most of one wall flickers with lines of code. Pieces of equipment litter the lush carpet, blinking dully. 

Pidge scoops up a nearby remote and points it at the screen. Waves of static appear briefly before a new image begins to pixelate, fuzzy and grey - the surveillance footage from their cameras two floors below. 

The front door opens again, this time Keith, Shiro, and Allura. All three have careful expressions of masked fury. 

Allura takes her customary place at the head of the room. “Paladins, it’s been a rather difficult night, so I’d appreciate your rapt attention for the next few minutes.” 

Unable to help himself, Lance snorts. Translation: _Which one of us is making it difficult, exactly?_

As usual, Allura ignores him. “Up to this point,” she says, “you’ve all heard only bits and pieces of the puzzle. I understand several of you have been frustrated by this lack of information, but may I remind you that you are not here out of leisure. You are here to complete a job under _my_ supervision. And I will direct you as _I_ see fit.” 

_So don’t even think about disobeying orders,_ Allura’s eyes seem to add. 

“Regardless,” she continues briskly, “from this point forward, we have between five and six hours to complete our infiltration. That being said, here are your current assignments: 

“A Galra security detail is currently on their way to our old suite. There, they will find information leading them to believe Shiro has returned to the Castle of Lions, as well as an invitation to discuss negotiations at an agreed location. Lance and Pidge, you will accompany Keith and Shiro to this location. Pidge, you will wiretap the room before returning to me. Lance, obviously, will lead negotiations. Any questions?” 

“Obviously,” says Lance. “What about Hunk?” 

“Hunk will - “ 

“I’m staying here,” Hunk puts in quickly. “Well, I’m going back to the Yellow Lion. But then I’m coming here. And staying.” 

Yeah, so that’s not suspicious at all. 

But after half a night of dancing on Allura’s strings, everyone in this stupidly fancy room is used to it. Keith is the first to stand up, already halfway out of the room before - 

“Wait!” 

Pidge jumps to their feet, pointing at the television screen as if any of them could miss it. A line of static wavers briefly over the footage. 

There’s no sound, but Lance can imagine it: six, seven - no, _eight_ pairs of footsteps thundering into the living room. The figures, dressed in identical black, disperse quickly - a handful heading down the hall, the rest pouncing on anything they can find, from loose papers to someone’s abandoned coffee cup. 

“Well, that’s that,” Pidge says, watching it all unfold. “Good job, guys. Teamwork. Hell yeah.” 

Nobody else says anything. Truthfully, it’s weird to see physical proof that what they’re doing - whatever the hell they’re doing - is doing _something._ That all of this arguing and sneaking around and lying and hacking and spying has finally started to come together. A giant spiderweb with Allura at its center. 

Allura, who has already left the room without so much as a _good job._

Lance shakes his head, grabs his duffel bag, and starts down the hall to get ready. 

\- 

4:03 A.M. 

They’re back in the living room, waiting. Lance leans against the wall, flipping through the folder Allura gave him, a character sheet so he’s not entirely clueless during the negotiations. He’s back in his best suit, an I.D tucked into his inside jacket pocket. 

Shiro looks the same as ever, dressed in all black, down to the gloves covering his Galra hand. 

They’re waiting for Keith, but down the hall, Lance hears a door close, and then footsteps. “Well, the gang’s all here,” Pidge drawls, around the lollipop they’re twirling in their mouth. 

Lance tosses his folder onto the table, grabs his bag, and he’s about to head outside when he sees Keith out the corner of his eye and - 

Instead, he short-circuits. 

Keith is wearing his Blade of Marmora armor - the way it’s actually _meant_ to be worn, not as a costume or disguise or elaborate piece of design. All the grifting in the world couldn’t make Lance look as natural as Keith does. He looks like a video game assassin, like an action hero figurine. 

He looks powerful and dangerous and _deadly_. 

Something so painfully hot curls in Lance’s stomach that he looks down and half-expects his dress shirt to be on fire. 

Then he wonders why the fuck he thought that in the first place. 

“Hey! Room keys!” Pidge is snapping in front of his face, jolting him back into focus. Lance realizes, a bit belatedly, he’s been staring, and now Keith is scowling at him - but, who knows, it’s also his resting expression. 

God, it’s probably the stress. Like Allura said, they’re getting close to the end. In any con, the ending is the most delicate part, where a mistake doesn’t just kill you - instead, it sets off a chain reaction, blowing up everything you’ve worked your ass off for. 

Another headache begins to brew, thrumming at the base of Lance’s skull. 

He’s ready to get this over with. 

\- 

4:28 A.M. 

Keith is leaning against the wall, flipping his knife handle-over-blade, and catching it every time. Shiro is reading through a book he found on the mantle. 

Lance is sitting on the couch praying he doesn’t fuck up. 

He doesn’t know _why_ he’s so nervous, but hell if he’s going to admit that to anyone. On the outside, he looks like the Dalai Lama. On the inside? He’s a fifteen year old’s first hangover. 

It’s only just sinking in that Lance’s sole objective right now is to hand Shiro back to the bloodthirsty captors responsible for the loss of his arm and his memories. Sure, he was going to do that anyway, in exchange for ransom money, but this - this just seems _cruel._ Back in the Blue Lion, it was only a clever plan laid out among Pidge’s quietly humming computer and a stack of manila files. 

But now… 

Shiro seems like a nice guy. It’s not his fault he doesn’t remember Lance, or that he’s being brainwashed by Keith. He’s loyal and smart and dependable, and he trusts Lance. 

Despite what Lance is about to do to him. 

So yeah, he feels like absolute shit. 

This room is nice, though, like everything in the Blue Lion. It’s exquisitely furnished: thick ornate carpet, Victorian chaises, gilded armchairs, and smooth polished tables. A synthetic fire crackles merrily in a marble fireplace. 

It’s also, thanks to Pidge, heavily bugged with microphones and cameras. If Lance does fuck up, there’s the possibility Allura or Hunk will be able to get to them in time.

4:30 A.M.

The door opens, and a tangible chill runs down Lance’s back even without looking - but he also feels his body respond automatically, shifting into character. Assessing the threat. 

The man (alien?) in front is obviously a leader of some kind, a bulky, forbidding Galra with short dark hair and an oil-spill suit. As soon as he enters the room, his pale yellow eyes locate Shiro immediately, and a flash of emotion curls his lip. 

He’s trailed by two guards, although these aren’t hired Castle security. Their uniforms are tailored, their expressions stone-cold - probably the leader’s own personal squad. Their weapons aren’t visible, but Lance knows they’re armed. 

The last person to enter is the most unexpected: a regular human man, with messy brown hair and thin wire glasses. He looks vaguely familiar, like a receptionist or a waiter - a face never quite recognizable. 

Lance is instantly suspicious. 

All four guests gravitate instinctively towards Keith and Shiro, but Lance steps neatly into their path, polite smile in place. 

“Please,” he says instead of an introduction, “take a seat.” 

It’s not a request. 

In the middle of the room, two sets of couches face each other across a long mahogany table. The Galra leader sits on one side, his guards standing behind him. Lance and Keith sit on the other. Shiro and the brown-haired human both choose armchairs at opposing corners. 

“Who are you?” the Galra leader asks once they’ve settled. His voice is low and sounds like cement mix. “We were told we were meeting with the Blade of Marmora and Takashi Shirogane.” 

“You are,” Lance responds. “Keith is a representative of the Blade. I’m sure you recognized Shiro.” 

“We were not informed of a third party.” 

“Neither was I.” Lance nods at the human. “But here we are.” 

After a tense moment, the Galra leader says, “My name is Vador. I am an...important figure, in the Black Lion. I’d like to finish these negotiations as quickly as possible. And - by the way - “ For the first time, Vador looks directly at Shiro, pale yellow eyes blazing. “Sendak sends his regards.” 

_Sendak…_ Lance can’t place the name, but he feels Keith tense. 

“My name is Sebastian Valenciano,” he says. “I’ve already introduced the other two. I’m a liason operative for the Blade of Marmora.” 

He’s got the I.D to prove it, thanks to Allura, but Vador doesn’t push. “What are your terms?” 

“I’m offering Takashi Shirogane to the Black Lion. In return - “ This is the delicate part. Lance needs to make his terms sound legitimate enough to avoid suspicion of foul play, but if he asks for too much, Vador will leave the table entirely.

“In return,” he says, “I want two sets of access codes for the Green Lion: full employee registration and records for the ports.” 

The fake fire might as well have gone out, the way everything freezes over. Lance can _feel_ the waves of ice Keith’s body is sending off, like a million Marmora daggers piercing his side, but he keeps his gaze trained directly forward. 

“I suppose it won’t make any difference,” Vador says, “if I ask what you intend to use these codes for.” 

“It won’t, but not for the reason you think,” Lance replies. “I told you, I’m just a liason, not an official member.” 

“A liason who doesn’t question orders?” 

“Do you talk back to your superiors?” 

“Regardless, it’s an interesting request.” Vador pauses. “I wonder if you might understand why I would be hesitant to strike a deal with Marmora traitors.” 

Lance braces himself. The room is colder now than ever. 

“What would stop us,” Vador muses, “from eliminating a troublesome Blade member and taking Takashi Shirogane for myself?” 

Keith tenses again, but this time, he’s reaching for his knife. The guards behind Vador’s couch are shifting their weight, hands creeping towards their hips. 

_Shit, Pidge,_ Lance thinks. _You’d better be right about this, or we’re done for._

“I’ll give you a couple reasons,” Lance says calmly. “Free of charge. First of all, check underneath the red pillow. Do you see that? It’s a specialized lense camera recording every one of your movements. This room is bugged and wired, and there are a lot more Blade members listening in if you still want to try your luck.” 

A lie, of course. There’s actually an underage hacker on the other end, probably eating chips and snickering manically to themselves. But Vador doesn’t need to know that. 

“Secondly,” Lance continues, “I doubt a Blade member alongside the most famous ex-Black Lion fighter is a gamble you’re willing to take, traitors or not.” 

Another lie. If Vador calls his bluff, he’s _fucked._

“And thirdly,” Lance says, shifting casually to hide his sweaty palms. His heart is pounding like a war drum. “We have access to information that can disable the tracker on Shiro’s arm. Leave without him tonight, and you’ll never see him again.” 

A tremor runs through Keith’s body - a flinch he couldn’t entirely stifle. 

Lance holds Vador’s gaze, yellow eyes unblinking. 

“Very well,” Vador agrees finally, but - “On one condition.” 

“Name your price.” 

““You understand why I might suspect some kind of trap,” explains Vador. “Blade members are notorious for double-dealing. I would like some kind of leverage, perhaps a payment in advance…” 

Lance wipes his sweaty hands on the couch. “I understand.” 

“What are you willing to offer, Mr. Valenciano?” 

The idea hits him in a flash of neurons. “Leave your guards at the door.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Until you’ve seen Shiro safely escorted to the Black Lion, leave your guards at the door. Keith and I will stay right here until you give the all-clear.” 

An ugly smile claws at Vador’s mouth. “That is quite the clever solution.” 

“You mentioned you were on a tight schedule, so take it or leave it,” Lance responds. Keith is so goddamned tense he’s going to snap like a rubber band, and it’s putting every nerve in Lance’s body on edge. “Do we have a deal?” 

Keith’s hand is an inch from his knife. 

It’s the instant before the bite - every grifter’s high, their adrenaline rush, their daredevil moment. Lance knows he’s got Vador even before Vador leans across the table, hand extended, fangs bared in the mockery of a grin. 

He knows, but all it fills him with is dread. 

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Valenciano,” Vador says. He removes a pad of paper and a pen from inside his jacket pocket and records two garbled strings of symbols and letters: the access codes. The price of Shiro’s life. 

“Cuff him,” he adds. 

Keith jumps to his feet, but the guards move first, and the damning _click_ of the handcuffs resonates like cemetery bells. Guilt plummets in Lance’s stomach. 

But he watches the guards lead Shiro away, and shakes Vador’s hand mechanically, and then he lets the door close on Captain Takashi Shirogane, Garrison instructor, hired muscle, and the only one out of all of them willing to trust Allura with his life. 

Vador’s footsteps pad down the hallway until he’s out of earshot, and that’s when Keith lunges. 

\- 

4:51 A.M. 

Lance finds himself with a knife to his throat - again. 

“Just going out on a limb, here,” he says, “but I think you might be pissed off.” 

“Ten stars, McClain.” Despite the knife, though, Keith’s expression is - weirdly _calm_ , which is so much worse than last time. “Now, I’m assuming you have your reasons for this - as half-assed as they might be - “ 

“Wow, high praise.” 

“I’ve trusted you this far.”

“Yeah, the knife is real trusting.” 

Keith’s eyes narrow. 

Then, unexpectedly, the sharp elbow digging into Lance’s chest is gone, and the cold metal blade against his neck disappears. Keith is standing in front of the couch, arms folded. “You’re a terrible fighter.”

“And you’re a terrible grifter. I thought we’d established this.” 

“Tell me why you traded Shiro for the most useless access codes in the entire Green Lion.” 

“Tell me why you still don’t think I know what I’m doing.” 

Keith circles the table and sits down on the couch opposite Lance. “Fine.” 

He looks so at ease in that goddamned armor it still puts a sour taste in Lance’s mouth, but fuck if he’s not about to get some answers, so he squashes it down for now and puts on a convincingly helpful face. “First of all, Shiro already made up his mind about going to the Black Lion, so I had to trade him for something.” 

God, if that’s not a giant fucking lie. 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do, actually. I overheard your conversation back at the hotel.” 

Keith’s hand goes instantly to his hip. “You fucking piece of - “ 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but you were yelling and it was interesting and I’m a nosy bitch. Move on. Anyway, if Allura’s plan is going to work, we have to get Lotor out of the Castle without raising suspicion. Pidge says the best way to do that is impersonate the guards that are already supposed to be transporting him. All that information should be stored in the Green Lion. I’m not a tech genius, but Pidge asked for those codes specifically, so I guess they’re important somehow.” 

Lies. Lies, lies, and more lies. Lance’s head is spinning, he needs a drink, he needs - something, God, a bottle of vodka, a bed with an actual pillow. This isn’t classified information - it’s the fucking _plan._ Why can’t he just tell Keith the truth? 

He leans back against the couch. “Your turn.” 

Keith’s eyes are narrowed, but he’s not a grifter, and he must like what he see because: “I do trust you.” 

“Pardon?” 

“If I didn’t, you’d be wearing a red smile around your throat.” 

“I thought you hated me.” 

“I don’t - “ Keith looks like he’s swallowing a lemon. “Not dislike you.” 

“Wow.” 

“That’s why I want to make a deal.” 

Lance blinks. For a moment - a very blissful, incandescent moment - his head stops spinning, like calm ocean waves after a storm. “A deal?” 

“That’s what I said, McClain. I’m getting Shiro out of the Black Lion, but I - “ Another lemon grimace. “I need help.” 

“You need help from me.” 

The synthetic fire crackles sadly, and just like that, Lance’s headache is back. “Why?” 

“Look, I’m not any more excited about this than you, but if I’m going to get him out, I need a grifter. And you’re about the only option I have.” 

“Wait wait wait.” Lance puts a hand to his forehead. “I just gave Shiro up, and now you trust me enough to get him back? What the hell are you thinking?” 

“You’re mad at me for trusting _you?_ ” 

Keith is on his feet again, the whole world is falling apart, and Lance just needs to take a step back and _think._ Whose side is he on? 

He made a deal with Allura to kidnap Lotor. He made a deal with Pidge to double-cross Keith and Shiro. He made a deal with himself to get out of this mess alive no matter the cost. And now Keith, of all people, is offering a hand? 

“I’m not an idiot,” Keith snaps, watching Lance’s face. “I don’t know what your problem is with me, and honestly, I don’t fucking care. If Shiro stays at the Black Lion, Sendak will torture and kill him. And I swore I’d never let that happen.” 

“I’m the lesser of two evils,” Lance guesses. “Great.” 

Even without trying, a plan is forming in his head: a way to squeeze every last ransom penny out of Keith and Shiro, a way to finish the job, a way to get off this stupid moon and finally, finally go back _home._

And it’s terrible. It’s a cruel, gut-wrenching, terrible thing. 

But what other option does he have? 

Keith doesn’t trust _Lance._ He trusts the person Lance is giving him, the facade that worked out a little too well. If he knew what was underneath, he’d hate Lance just as much as he did at the Garrison, always one perfect test score away from crushing him underneath his foot. 

“You stabbed me earlier,” Lance says. 

“I don’t regret it,” Keith retorts. 

“You really don’t know what my problem is with you?” 

“I can take a guess, but no, McClain, I don’t.” 

They have time. Lance could sit down and tell him the whole miserable story - the jealousy, the frustration, the endless, vicious cycle of competition and failure. He could be honest with Keith Kogane, right now. And, most likely, it wouldn’t do any harm. It might make him feel better, even. 

But they say if you lie for long enough, you’ll forget how to tell the truth. 

“What’s in it for me?” he asks instead. “If I’m risking my life to bust your lapdog out of the Black Lion, I want some kind of reward.” 

Instantly, Keith’s scowl is back. “Is that really all you think about? Money?” 

“For fuck’s sake, grow up, Kogane. We’re all criminals here.” 

“Yeah, maybe so, but not all of us spend our free time stealing from public museums.” 

Jesus fucking Christ - _this_ is what Lance means. He lets his guard down for one fucking second and all of a sudden he’s the dirt underneath Keith’s goddamn heel. 

So, fine. 

“You know,” Lance says, “you can act all high-and-mighty just because you’re playing fucking Robin Hood for the Blade of Marmora - but don’t forget you’ve got the same blood running through your veins as every coldhearted sadistic aristocrat in this hotel.” 

Keith flinches so hard it’s almost funny. “How the hell do you know about that?” 

“You’ve been sharing oxygen with a grifter for the last six hours, it wasn’t fucking rocket science.” 

“God, do you have _any_ idea what personal space is? You know, McClain, you haven’t changed a bit since the Garrison - “ 

“ - sure, _I’m_ the one who doesn’t understand personal space - let’s talk about the gash on my stomach, how the fuck did _that_ get there - “ 

Lance’s head is pounding, his wound aching, he knows even before it happens how this is going to go: Keith losing his temper, trapping Lance against the nearest vertical flat surface, probably cutting off his arm or maybe a couple fingers or something equally Galran - 

Keith’s hands are twisted in the front of Lance’s jacket, his eyes are blazing with violet fire, inches away. 

Lance hates him. Lance viciously, powerfully hates him. 

“I can’t believe I ever trusted you,” Keith hisses, and Lance bears his teeth in a grim smile. “Can’t believe Shiro trusts a fucking Galra.” 

The fact that Keith can’t get to his knife right now is the only thing keeping Lance alive, job or not - he can _feel_ the loathing radiating from Keith’s body like a black hole, lightless, limitless - it’s setting off all his nerves and synapses and telling him to _run, run, get out before it’s too_ \- 

\- fuck - 

_Late._

Lance is frozen, Keith’s body is burning up, and neither are willing to admit who did it first - who felt the body heat and the panting, open-mouthed breath of the other, and - 

Okay, yeah, it was Lance. 

Keith lets him go without warning, and Lance stumbles back against the wall behind him, but they’re still too close, hyper-aware of each other. There’s a questioning furrow between Keith’s eyes. 

“I still hate you,” Lance blurts out. 

Keith’s eyes narrow. “Likewise.” 

For the second time, Lance’s back slams against the wall, the wind knocked out of his lungs - but whatever complaints he might have had are swallowed by the insistent press of Keith’s mouth. 

There’s no preliminary gentleness, no warning - Keith kisses him like they’ve done it a million times before. He shoves his tongue between Lance’s lips, keeps pushing and pushing until it’s bruise-hard, every shouting match and argument they’ve ever had. 

And damn if Lance isn’t going to win this one, too. 

He wedges his thigh between Keith’s legs, tangles his fingers through that long, stupidly fluffy dark hair and _pulls._ Keith’s mouth stutters for the briefest second before he bites down, tugging Lance’s bottom lip between his teeth, and soothing the sting with his tongue. This close, he smells like pine or teakwood or something equally mysterious - and it’s so fucking hot Lance can’t tell if he wants to kill him or keep kissing him. 

Holy _fuck._

The realization of exactly what they’re doing finally hits, and Lance pulls away so quickly he almost - _almost_ \- feels bad. 

Keith backs up just as suddenly, out of his space. His hair is tangled and messy, his lips are red, and his cheeks are flushed pink. 

Something in Lance’s stomach drops fast enough to give him vertigo, but he ignores it. 

“I’ll do it,” he says instead. “I’ll help you get Shiro out of the Black Lion.” 

Keith nods. 

“And this - “ 

“Is nothing,” he says quickly. “A fling. I don’t care.” 

Earlier, Lance had vowed to do whatever it took to gain Keith’s trust. 

“We’ve still got time,” he points out. “I mean, we’re pretty much stuck in here, aren’t we?” 

Keith arches an eyebrow. “I thought you hated me.” 

“I do.” 

_Whatever -_

“Just as long as we’re on the same page, then.” 

Lance offers him the barest hint of a smirk. “You know, Kogane, I’m pretty sure we are.” 

_Whatever it takes._

\- 

5:27 A.M. 

A lot can change in almost two hours. In gambling, that’s especially true. Time can make or break you - can make you a fortune or leave you penniless in the dust. 

In two hours, guests at the Yellow Lion finished dinner - or breakfast - and retired to their rooms. In two hours, several fights occurred at the Black Lion. In two hours, a number of patrons at the Red Lion got very, very high. 

But the odd thing about time is that it often passes differently for each person. For some at the Castle of Lions, two hours felt like the blink of an eye. For others, it felt like an eternity. 

And for a very specific woman currently boarded at the Blue Lion, those two hours are perhaps the most important of her career. While others dined and danced and dashed away their inheritance, she is leaning over the shoulder of an underage hacker currently rummaging through a bag of chips. 

“You know, this is making me super uncomfortable,” Pidge says. “Like, I’m a weird mix of guilty and disgusted right now.” 

Allura doesn’t respond. 

“Like, you know when you’re a kid, and your parents call you downstairs and they’re sitting at the kitchen table, and they’re like “we need to talk to you about something” and you’re like - “ 

“Shut it down,” Allura interrupts, straightening. “I have seen enough.” 

“I’ve seen _more_ than enough.” 

A lot can change in two hours. Empires can rise or crumble. Sworn enemies can become close friends. 

A man on his way to his bedroom can suddenly become a political prisoner. 

It almost makes you wonder if someone is keeping track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh i tried so hard to write and post this as quickly as possible for you guys but my brain just wasn't!! working!!! i rewrote it like four times because i wanted to do my best since you've given me such amazing compliments and motivation..... i think i'm satisfied with this version though so i hope you like it!!! 
> 
> being in quarantine is so lonely and stressful but this fic is actually giving me a lot of inspiration to get through the day so i hope you guys have something like that where you can just relax and be creative about things even though it's a scary time to be living in. (motivational ted talks from ao3, who knew??) anyway please stay safe and if you're ever feeling lonely my tumblr is always open, and ofc i'm always happy to talk about klance. 
> 
> edit: i’m so sorry guys but i don’t think i’ll be updating as soon as i wanted. i’ll continue to work on this story though so please know that i haven’t abandoned it entirely!


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